The Chronicles Of Harry Holmes by Zeno-no-kyuubi
by Wassa110
Summary: I've re-uploaded The Chronicles Of Harry Holmes so other people can enjoy this story. This story was written by Zeno-no-kyuubi, and he has given me his blessing/permission to re-upload this story. If you enjoyed this story check him out i'm only a humble fan. He has great stories similar to this like In The Mind Of A Scientist with the sequels branching out to SG-1, and ME.
1. Chapter 1

Summary: What if the Dursleys gave Harry the Sherlock Holmes books when he was a child to make sure he knew that there was no such thing as magic? What if he did everything to become just like Holmes? May seem rushed, but more coming. Sequel in the making!

There is no such thing as magic. That was what Harry had been told for as long as he could remember. His aunt and uncle had made sure to drill it into his head that there is no such thing as magic. To further make him realize this, they did something they'd never done before. They gave him books when he turned five. Sherlock Holmes, to be precise...

"Elementry..." ten-year old Harry practiced in front of the mirror. He cleared his throat. "Elementary... It's elementary... Elementary."

He nodded to himself as he tried to adjust his face, attempting to maintain a pompous, yet normal look.

"Elementary, my dear Watson... Though, he never says that..."

The Dursley family had treated him somewhat like a family member, though more like a distant relative that nobody liked. He had Dudley's second room, but there was hardly anything in it, only a hard, uncomfortable bed, a desk, a bookshelf with the entire Holmes collection in it, a wardrobe, and a wall mirror.

Harry's nose dove into the 'A Study in Scarlet' book again, and he hummed to himself.

"BOY!" came the roar of Uncle Vernon from downstairs. "YOU INSISTED ON GETTING A VIOLIN! YOU INSISTED ON ME DRIVING YOU TO PRACTICE, SO YOU BETTER GET YOUR ARSE DOWN HERE THIS INSTANT!"

Was it four already? Harry hastily snapped the book shut and carefully placed it back in the bookshelf, before grabbing the beaten old violin case on his bed, rushing out of the room.

"Coming, Uncle Vernon, sorry!" he yelled, rushing down the stairs. "Hey, Uncle, can I get a pipe?"

"WHAT?"

Mr. H. Potter

The Smallest Bedroom

4 Privet Drive

Little Whinging

Surrey

10-year old Harry, soon to be 11, stared at the letter in his hand. A letter, for him? That had never happened before. And the cupboard... How did the sender know exactly where he lived? He was about to open it, when it was snatched out of his hand by Uncle Vernon, who glared down at him.

"Don't linger, and give me the mail, boy!" he ordered gruffly as he wobbled back into the kitchen, Harry following closely.

"That's mine," Harry said, trying to snatch it back.

"Who'd be writing to you?" Uncle Vernon sneered, opening the envelope, taking out the letter and shaking it open with one hand and glancing at it. His face went from red to green faster than a set of traffic lights. And it didn't stop there. Within seconds it was the grayish white of old porridge.

"P-P-Petunia!" he gasped.

Dudley tried to grab the letter to read it, but Uncle Vernon held it high out of his reach. Aunt Petunia took it curiously and read the first line. For a moment it looked as though she might faint. She clutched her throat and made a choking noise.

"Vernon! Oh my goodness... Vernon!"

They stared at each other, seeming to have forgotten that Harry and Dudley were still in the room. Dudley wasn't used to being ignored. He gave his father a sharp tap on the head with his Smelting stick.

"I want to read that letter," he said loudly.

"I believe I'm entitled to read it," Harry said, glaring at Dudley, "as it's mine."

"Get out, both of you," Uncle Vernon croaked, stuffing the letter back inside its envelope.

Harry didn't move.

"I want my letter."

"Let me see it!" Dudley demanded.

"OUT!" Uncle Vernon roared, and he took both Harry and Dudley by the scruffs of their necks and threw them into the hall, slamming the kitchen door behind them. Harry and Dudley promptly had a furious but silent fight over who would listen at the keyhole. Dudley won, so Harry, his glasses dangling from one ear, lay flat on his stomach to listen at the crack between door and floor.

"Vernon," Aunt Petunia was saying in a quivering voice, "look at the address... how could they possibly know where he sleeps? You don't think they're watching the house?"

"Watching... spying... might be following us," Uncle Vernon muttered wildly.

"But what should we do, Vernon? Should we write back? Tell them we don't want-"

Harry could see Uncle Vernon's shiny black shoes pacing up and down the kitchen.

"No," he said finally. "No, we'll ignore it. If they don't get an answer... Yes, that's best... we won't do anything..."

"But-"

"I'm not having one in the house, Petunia! Didn't we swear when we took him in we'd stamp out that dangerous nonsense?"

That evening when he got back from work, Uncle Vernon did something he'd never done before; he visited Harry in his room.

"Where's my letter?" Harry asked politely, the moment Uncle Vernon had squeezed through the door. "Who's writing to me?"

"No one. It was addressed to you by mistake," Uncle Vernon said shortly. "I have burned it."

"It was not a mistake," Harry said angrily, "it had my room on it."

"SILENCE!" Uncle Vernon yelled. "Now, I want to hear no more about that letter, understand?"

"But-"

"NO BUTS! NOW PRACTICE YOUR VIOLIN!"

Harry jumped at the yell and almost ran over to the bed, taking his battered old second-hand violin out of its case. He lay down on the bed, using his pillows as a backrest while Uncle Vernon slammed the door shut, and Harry started playing a sad tune to mimic his feelings.

This was a mystery... Who would write Harry Potter? No matter how hard he thought about it, Harry couldn't come up with a theory. Not until he got a glance at the letter. He had an incredible eye for detail.

Parchment, written with a reservoir pen or quill, right-handed, judging by the angle of the strokes... Old fashioned... he thought to himself as he got up, pacing up and down the room. Hypothesis: An old Lord, who has just discovered that I am a blood relative, and wishes to set me free from this family.

He stopped at that thought, shaking his head. No, no, too wild... I wanted that letter...

Next morning at breakfast, everyone was rather quiet. Dudley was in shock. He'd screamed, whacked his father with his Smelting stick, had been sick on purpose, kicked his mother, and thrown his tortoise through the greenhouse roof, and he still hadn't been allowed to read the letter. Harry was thinking about this time yesterday and bitterly wishing he'd opened the letter in the hall. Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia kept looking at each other darkly.

When the mail arrived, Uncle Vernon, who seemed to be trying to be extra nice to Harry, made Dudley go and get it. They heard him banging things with his Smelting stick all the way down the hall. Then, he shouted, "There's another one! 'Mr. H. Potter, The Smallest Bedroom, 4 Privet Drive-'"

With a strangled cry, Uncle Vernon leapt from his seat and ran down the hall, Harry right behind him. Uncle Vernon had to wrestle Dudley to the ground to get the letter from him, which was made difficult by the fact that Harry had grabbed Uncle Vernon around the neck from behind. After a minute of confused fighting, in which everyone got hit a lot by the Smelting stick, Uncle Vernon straightened up, gasping for breath, with Harry's letter clutched in his hand.

"Go to your bedroom, practice your violin," he wheezed at Harry. "Dudley, go... just go..."

Harry paced back and forth in his bedroom, angrily playing the violin, the instrument of the soul, as he had called it. Surely, whoever sent those letters would just try again and again? Why was Uncle Vernon trying so hard to keep them from him?

Aunt Petunia reacted the worst, recognition in her eyes... Revulsion and jealousy in her eyes... Therefore, it must be family related, but what?

The anger ebbed away, and the tunes became softer and softer, until he played the slow, calming tune he always played when he thought hard about something. I need data...

BOOM!

The whole shack, in which Uncle Vernon had decided they'd stay to escape the hundreds of letters sent to Harry, shivered and Harry sat bolt upright, staring at the door. Someone was outside, knocking to come in.

BOOM!

They knocked again. Dudley jerked awake.

"Where's the cannon?" he asked stupidly.

There was a crash behind them and Uncle Vernon came skidding into the room. He was holding a rifle in his hands. Now they knew what had been in the long, thin package he had brought with them. Though Harry had suspected it, judging by the shape of the package, and the faint smell of gunpowder from it, suggesting that it was a used rifle.

"Who's there?" he shouted. "I warn you, I'm armed!"

There was a pause. Then...

SMASH!

The door was hit with such force that it swung clean off its hinges and with a deafening crash landed flat on the floor.

A giant of a man was standing in the doorway. His face was almost completely hidden by a long, shaggy mane of hair and a wild, tangled beard, but you could make out his eyes, glinting like black beetles under all the hair.

The giant squeezed his way into the hut, stooping so that his head just brushed the ceiling. He bent down, picked up the door, and fitted it easily back into its frame. The noise of the storm outside dropped a little. He turned to look at them all.

"Couldn't make us a cup o' tea, could yeh? It's not been an easy journey..."

He strode over to the sofa where Dudley sat frozen with fear.

"Budge up, yeh great lump," the stranger said.

Dudley squeaked and ran to hide behind his mother, who was crouching, terrified, behind Uncle Vernon.

"An' here's Harry!" the giant said.

Harry looked up into the fierce, wild, shadowy face and saw that the beetle eyes were crinkled in a smile.

'Tone of voice, body language, and the expression on his face suggests that this man means me no harm. Threat: None.'

"Las' time I saw you, you was only a baby," said the giant. "Yeh look a lot like yer dad, but yeh've got yer mom's eyes." Uncle Vernon made a funny rasping noise.

"I demand that you leave at once, sir!" he said. "You are breaking and entering!"

"Ah, shut up, Dursley, yeh great prune," the giant said. He reached over the back of the sofa, jerked the gun out of Uncle Vernon's hands, bent it into a knot as easily as if it had been made of rubber, and threw it into a corner of the room.

Uncle Vernon made another funny noise, like a mouse being trodden on.

"Anyway, Harry," the giant said, turning his back on the Dursleys, "a very happy birthday to yeh. Got summat fer yeh here... I mighta sat on it at some point, but it'll taste all right."

From an inside pocket of his black overcoat he pulled a slightly squashed box. Harry opened it with trembling fingers. Inside was a large, sticky chocolate cake with Happy Birthday Harry written on it in green icing.

Harry looked up at the giant. He meant to say thank you, as it was only polite, but the words got lost on the way to his mouth, and what he said instead was, "Who are you?"

The giant chuckled.

"True, I haven't introduced meself. Rubeus Hagrid, Keeper of Keys and Grounds at Hogwarts."

He held out an enormous hand and shook Harry's whole arm.

"What about that tea then, eh?" he asked, rubbing his hands together. "I'd not say no ter summat stronger if yeh've got it, mind."

His eyes fell on the empty grate with the shriveled chip bags in it and he snorted. He bent down over the fireplace, and they couldn't see what he was doing, but when he drew back a second later, there was a roaring fire there. It filled the whole damp hut with flickering light and Harry felt the warmth wash over him as though he'd sunk into a hot bath.

No noise... No stroke of matches, no click of a lighter. Nothing... Harry thought as he stared at the fire. Cause of the fire: Unknown...

The giant sat back down on the sofa, which sagged under his weight, and began taking all sorts of things out of the pockets of his coat: a copper kettle, a squashy package of sausages, a poker, a teapot, several chipped mugs, and a bottle of some amber liquid that he took a swig from before starting to make tea.

Alright, so there he was, on the Hogwarts Express, waiting to go off to Hogwarts. His mind was working furiously to get around all the things he'd seen lately. After all, there was no such thing as magic, right? Then again, he couldn't explain anything else. All the evidence pointed to the fact that magic did, in fact, exist...

He had to admit, though, he'd only been at the station for a few minutes, when a mystery appeared before him. The woman, who showed him how to get the platform nine and three-quarters... Middle-aged woman, who had several children, only one of whom started school, whereas the others had already started. She had been there more than once, probably even when she went to school as well.

Why would she need to be reminded of which platform it was?

Harry Potter was famous in the wizard world. The woman obviously knew who he was, since her eyes landed on his scar, but she didn't seem surprised, unlike everyone else he'd met... Harry sighed as he reached into his pocket, taking out a plastic stick, about the size of a pencil, and put it in his mouth, chewing on it with his brow furrowed in thought.

In the books, Sherlock Holmes smoked a pipe, and Harry had found that it relaxed him to chew on something, and since he was too young to chew on a pipe, he had to settle for a piece of plastic.

Only minutes after Harry had gotten on the train, and met those two ginger twins, the youngest son of the ginger woman had come into the compartment to ask if any of the seats were taken.

Greed was the first thing Harry saw in the boy's eyes, and as such, he had told him that he was expecting visitors. His warning bells went off when that boy was around.

Greed, the woman knew who I was, and the boy had no doubt been sent by her, no doubt to befriend me... I do own a rather large sum of gold... Harry thought as he hummed, absentmindedly staring at the opposite wall of the compartment.

There was a knock on the door of their compartment and the round-faced boy Harry had passed on platform nine and three-quarters came in. He looked tearful.

"Sorry," he said, "but have you seen a toad at all?" When Harry shook his head, he wailed, "I've lost him! He keeps getting away from me!"

"Come, sit," Harry said, gesturing for the seat opposite of him. "The best way of knowing if an animal is loyal is to let it come to you. If your toad doesn't return, it's fairly safe to say that it's not comfortable around you, and you should let it go."

The round-faced boy blinked slightly, and then stepped into the compartment, sitting down across from Harry.

"I'm Harry, Harry Potter," Harry said with a smile, holding out his hand in greeting.

The boy gasped in shock as his eyes immediately landed on the scar on Harry's forehead. "Y-You're... Harry Potter... THE Harry Potter..."

"Indeed," Harry said, nodding. "I believe it's polite to introduce yourself as well."

The boy jumped slightly, and rubbed his slightly sweaty hand on his pant leg, before shaking Harry's. "Sorry. I get sweaty hands when I'm nervous. I'm Neville Longbottom."

"It's quite alright," Harry said, smiling again.

"I heard you were raised by muggles," Neville said. "What were they like?"

"They were, in short, horrible," Harry replied, back to chewing on his plastic. "They hate magic more than anything, and as such drilled into my head that magic doesn't exist. It was a rather big surprise for me to find out that it is, in fact, real. I take it that you were not?"

"No, I was raised by my gran," Neville said. "She's a pureblood witch. No muggle contact for me. It's not that she hates muggles, or anything like that. She just likes magic more than muggles." Neville noticed that Harry was staring at him rather intently. "Uh... Something wrong?"

"Not at all," Harry said, shaking his head. "I am merely analyzing you."

"Analyzing me?"

"Yes. Growing up, I have generated a great eye for details, and as such, I find that it's excellent training for my brain, to analyze the people I meet."

Neville, intrigued, leaned forward. "So, what can you tell about me?"

Harry leaned forward as well, staring into Neville's eyes while chewing on his plastic. "You're insecure. Your constant attempts to avoid eye contact suggests that you lack confidence, and as such, deliberately fail anything you do, because you believe that you will fail anyway. Growing up with your grandmother suggests that your parents weren't there for you. Your reaction at the mention of your parents tells me that they didn't leave you. Instead, they weren't able to raise you. Death is ruled out due to the great distress you show at the mention of them. The usual reaction in case of death would be sorrow. No, I'd say that they're not dead, but instead... incapacitated, either from disease, or mental illness."

Neville gaped at him. "You got all that from me in this short time?"

"A man's actions and reactions can tell a person a lot of things about himself. Not everything has to be spoken to be understood," Harry replied as he leaned back, chewing on his plastic thoughtfully. "Furthermore, your sweaty hands indicate nervousness, a nervousness that suggests that you are afraid of failure, or perhaps disappointment. This tells me that you have had a hard time growing up, and that your grandmother expects great things from you, due to the successes of your parents."

"That's amazing!" Neville exclaimed, and Harry felt a smirk appearing on his face. He was finally going to get to say it!

"Elementary."

Neville was just about to speak, when the compartment door slid open again. This time a girl was there. She was already wearing her new Hogwarts robes.

"Has anyone seen a toad? Neville's lost one," she said. She had a bossy sort of voice, lots of bushy brown hair, and rather large front teeth. She noticed Neville in the compartment, and looked at him strangely. "Neville? Shouldn't you be looking for your toad?"

"I was, but Harry made me realize that, uh..." Apparently, he had trouble with big words, due to his insecurity, and fear of failure.

"That it is futile to try to keep the toad with him, if it clearly doesn't want to be there," Harry finished kindly, and Neville sent him a look of thanks.

"Oh, alright, then," the girl said as she sat down. "Then I won't have to look anymore. I'm so excited to go to Hogwarts, aren't you? I've tried a few simple spells just for practice and it's all worked for me. Nobody in my family's magic at all, it was ever such a surprise when I got my letter, but I was ever so pleased, of course, I mean, it's the very best school of witchcraft there is, I've heard. I've learned all our course books by heart, of course, I just hope it will be enough. I'm Hermione Granger, by the way, who are you?"

She said all this very fast.

Harry smiled at the girl. She, like him, had already read through the course books, and prepared herself properly, an achiever.

"I'm Neville Longbottom, as you know," Neville said.

"Harry Potter," Harry said.

"Are you really?" Hermione asked. "I know all about you, of course. I got a few extra books, for background reading, and you're in Modern Magical History and The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts and Great Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century."

"Am I now?" Harry asked curiously, raising an eyebrow.

"Goodness, didn't you know, I'd have found out everything I could if it was me," Hermione said. "Do either of you know what house you'll be in? I've been asking around, and I hope I'm in Gryffindor, it sounds by far the best. I hear Dumbledore himself was in it, but I suppose Ravenclaw wouldn't be too bad..."

"I suppose Gryffindor would be the prime choice, though Ravenclaw is home to the primarily intellectual," Harry said, mostly to himself.

"Ooh, Harry," Neville said, suddenly getting excited. "Analyze Hermione!"

"Analyze?" Hermione asked, raising an eyebrow, seeing Harry stare at her.

"No, I shouldn't. You will get offended," Harry said quickly.

"No, no, I insist. Analyze me."

"Very well, if you insist," Harry said as he hummed, chewing on his plastic. "You're intelligent. Dangerously so. You constantly thirst for knowledge, and strive to be the best at whatever it is you do. However, this has had consequences in your life. Due to your smarts, you were bullied in school growing up, not making any friends because, according to them, you were a bossy know-it-all. However, that is just a mask, which slipped the second I said know-it-all, because you hate that word. Underneath that mask lies an insecure girl, who only wants to make friends, but you're hindered by your thirst for knowledge, and therefore hide your desire to make friends, and instead focus all your attention on your studies."

Hermione, just like Neville, gaped stupidly. Then, however, her expression turned into one of excitement. "That's very good! What else can you tell about me?"

Harry hummed and leaned closer. "Your neat teeth suggests that you come from parents who deem this to be very important, and seeing as you said that they were non-magic, I would say that at least one of them is a dentist. You've been wanting to do something about your front teeth for ages, out of fear of being bullied even more by your cruel classmates, but your parents think that you shouldn't tamper with teeth, anymore than necessary." He glanced down quickly, and then looked up at Hermione again.

"Your fingering your clothes suggests that you are used to picking fur out of your clothes, but don't have to worry about it anymore. You're a cat person, not a dog person, so you had a cat not too long ago, but... it died, judging by the look in your eyes."

Hermione took several deep breaths as she stared at Harry, taking in his posture, and staring at the plastic, which he held as if it was a pipe.

"Sherlock Holmes fan?" she asked, smiling slyly, a smile that was returned by Harry.

"Been reading about him ever since I was five."

"Sherlock Holmes?" Neville asked curiously.

"Sherlock Holmes is a fictional character of the late 19th and early 20th centuries who first appeared in publication in 1887. He was the creation of Scottish author and physician Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. A brilliant London-based 'consulting detective,' Holmes is famous for his astute logical reasoning, his ability to take almost any disguise, and his forensic science skills to solve difficult cases. Sir Conan Doyle wrote four novels and 56 short stories featuring Holmes. I've read them all."

"Pretty nice, for an 11-year old," Hermione said with a smile, getting a nod from Harry.

"Thank you. Now, you say you read all the course books?"

"Naturally."

"Well, I bought up nearly all of Flourish Blotts' stock when I was there," Harry said with a smirk at the jealous look on Hermione's face. "Pity I couldn't bring them all. Hagrid, the groundskeeper at Hogwarts, told me that there are special trunks with enlargement charms in them. I should probably invest in one of those next year."


	2. Chapter 2

–4 years later–

"BOY!"

Inside the very messy smallest bedroom of Number Four, Privet Drive, a fifteen year old wizard sat. His long hair was black as night and very messy, reaching almost down to his shoulders, and his eyes were an emerald green, the same color as his mother's. This was Harry Potter, a wizard and student of Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry. The very concept of magic had gone against everything he knew, but he had quickly learned to adapt, accepting it as the truth after being shown a substantial amount of evidence. As a man always seeking knowledge, to work his brain constantly, he quickly found out as much as he could about the magical world, and as a result, his room was a mess, riddled with books, papers, parchment, ink wells, quills, clothes, anything he had ever used and simply dropped where he stood.

Harry stood up from where he had sat on the floor, plucking on the strings of his fiddle. He laid the fiddle down on the bed, and then left the room.

Downstairs, in the kitchen, waited Harry's only remaining relatives. His aunt, Petunia Dursley, was a horse-faced woman who loved spying on the neighbors, and always kept her house perfectly clean. He had studied her extensively during his time growing up, and he had found that the was a very complex woman. On the outside, she showed that she was a woman who needed normalcy, nothing that couldn't be explained was allowed near her, but he had also noticed that she harbored some feelings of jealousy toward her sister, Lily Potter, and in turn Harry, for being able to use magic, something that is completely free of control, and which allows one to do nearly anything.

His uncle, Vernon Dursley, was a big, beefy man with thick, dark hair, a bushy, black mustache, who hardly had any neck, and had small, blue mean eyes. He detested and was very much afraid of magic and anything unusual or out of the ordinary. Naturally, he despised Harry, who was very much a symbol of both. Uncle Vernon was a petty-minded bully who had no tolerance for people who were different than himself. He was very much concerned with status and wealth, and tended to judge people based on how big their cars were or their clothes. He showed how much he hated the prospect of being a subordinate, of not being in control, by how he enjoyed ordering his employees around at Grunnings, the drill company he was the director of, and proudly advocated the death penalty. Another hint as to his true lack of assertiveness was how he liked to look big and intimidating, but like a balloon, all the air went out of him whenever he was put in situations he wasn't used to, rendering him open for intimidation, the best way to get something from him.

Lastly was Dudley Dursley, the thirty-nine days older cousin of Harry. Looking much like a pig in a wig, Dudley had watery blue eyes and thick, blond hair. He was extremely obese, at least four time's Harry's size. He ate plenty of junk food and hated exercising, the complete opposite of Harry. Though he had to admit, Harry wasn't so healthy, either. Dudley was unpleasant as a child, and he was unpleasant now. His parents spoiled him to the point of becoming demanding, selfish, and manipulative. Each year, on his birthday, he wanted more presents than he got on the previous one, showing his greed. Like his father, he was a bully, and he had a very bad habit of picking on and beating up kids who were weaker and younger than he was, and, when he temporarily forgot about Harry's status as a wizard, callously insulted him in any way possible. He, like the rest of his family, harbored a great fear of magic.

"Took you long enough," Uncle Vernon grumbled, glaring at Harry, who raised an eyebrow.

"Thirty-four seconds, to be precise," Harry said, tilting his head to the side. "I didn't know I had to be an Olympic runner to make it on time."

"Don't give me any of your cheek, boy!" Uncle Vernon growled out, his face steadily turning purple. Then, he seemed to reign himself in, Harry noted with satisfaction. He really didn't need to listen to Uncle Vernon's rather poor attempts at intimidation today. Uncle Vernon took a deep breath, and then spoke. "Now that we're all gathered, as we all know, today is a very important day."

"Since you haven't celebrated my birthday once since I got here..." Harry said, reaching into his pocket and taking out the pipe the headmaster of Hogwarts, Albus Dumbledore, had given him at the end of last year, knowing that Harry was a fan of Holmes. He chewed on the pipe and raised an eyebrow. "...I'm guessing you're talking about the Masons?"

"Exactly, boy," Uncle Vernon said, blinking. As with every year, he seemed to have forgotten that Harry even had a birthday. On the rare few occasions he actually did remember, he used to insult Harry's parents, back before Harry found out the truth of their deaths from Hagrid, the Keeper of Keys and Grounds at Hogwarts. "Now, I think we should run through the schedule one more time," Uncle Vernon continued. "We should all be in position at eight o'clock. Petunia, you will be...?"

"In the lounge," Aunt Petunia said promptly, "waiting to welcome them graciously to our home."

"Good, good. And Dudley?"

"I'll be waiting to open the door." Dudley put on a foul, simpering smile. "May I take your coats, Mr. and Mrs. Mason?"

"They'll love him!" Aunt Petunia cried rapturously.

"Excellent, Dudley," Uncle Vernon said. Then, he rounded on Harry. "And you?"

"I'll be in my bedroom, making little noise," Harry said, shrugging. Uncle Vernon's eyes narrowed dangerously.

"Little noise?"

"Little noise," Harry repeated. "And I would have to let Hedwig out of her cage to minimize the noise. I won't be completely silent. Of course, if you don't like that," he added quickly, "I could always tell the Masons just how I have been treated here for the last fifteen years?"

Harry chewed on his pipe with a satisfied smile when he watched, as always, how Uncle Vernon seemed to deflate like a balloon.

"Smarter plan would be to tell the Masons about me right away, but tell them that I am very shy, and prefer to stay in my room. Just a suggestion," Harry said. Then, with a nod to Uncle Vernon, he turned and walked out of the kitchen. He had long since stopped fearing his uncle. The man was all bark and weak bite. He threatened to beat Harry, to starve him, to drown him, and a wide selection of other colorful threats, but Harry merely had to mention magic or suggest telling people about his mistreatment to intimidate the pathetic man.

Peace and quiet was desirable for most men. But Harry Potter wasn't like most men. To him, peace and quiet was a curse. His mind needed to work, to solve problems, to make great deductions from the tiniest of details. At times like this, the only thing that could soothe his mind was the fiddle. Therefore, he completely ignored his uncle's yelling as he sat in his bed, his bow rising and falling on the violin, a tune of his own creation permeating his brain, soothing it with its soft notes. Strewn all around him were crumpled pieces of parchment and books, all of them laying open before Harry for him to read.

As he played, his eyes roamed a page in one of the books, then flickered over to another, then another. This summer holiday was unbearable. He wanted nothing more than to go back to Hogwarts, to go for late night strolls, investigating the castle, discovering the various manners of mischief that the school's troublemakers, mostly the Weasley twins, had caused during the day.

Slowly, Harry's eyes drifted closed, as he slowed down his fiddling. He listened closely, heard the patriarch of the Darcy family across the street leave his house, on his way to work as always, with a quick stop at his mistress' house, as it was Friday. He always left the house an hour early on Fridays so that he could spend some more time with his mistress.

He heard the Masons' car pull into the driveway. Three doors opened, and out of it stepped Mr. Mason, Mrs. Mason, and their daughter, Miss Mason. Not yet an adult, but still old enough to wear high heels and not look silly.

Downstairs, he heard Uncle Vernon fidget anxiously, judging by the creaking of the floorboard in the hallway as he shifted his considerable weight from one leg to another. No doubt, he was annoyed that Harry would play the fiddle at this time.

"May I take your coats, Mr. and Mrs. Mason?"

Even Harry, from his room, could hear how sickeningly false the cheer and politeness in his Dudley's voice was.

Harry heard and felt something else that made him cease his fiddling with one last scratchy note, his eyes snapping open. In front of him, at the foot of the bed, stood a little creature with large, bat-like ears and bulging green eyes the size of tennis balls. A house-elf? It bowed so low that the end of its long, thin nose touched the bed. It was wearing what looked like an old pillowcase, with rips for arm- and leg-holes.

"Harry Potter!" the house-elf said in a high-pitched voice. "So long had Dobby wanted to meet you, sir... Such an honor it is..."

Slowly, Harry, still staring intently at the house-elf, raised his hand, putting a finger to his lips and hushing softly.

"Please, keep your voice down. My relatives have company."

The house-elf's eyes widened considerably, and he nodded so fast that his ears flapped up and down, smacking against his cheeks.

"And you are...?" Harry asked with his right eyebrow rising curiously.

"Dobby, sir. Just Dobby. Dobby the house-elf," the creature said with another low bow.

"Pleasure, Dobby," Harry said, nodding in greeting. "I'd introduce myself, but you already know who I am. Please, sit."

At the last word, the elf burst into tears, very noisy tears. Harry, thinking quickly, picked up his violin and bow once more, playing a tune that covered the noise of the elf's sobbing.

"I beg your pardon," Harry said as he worked his bow on the strings. "Have I offended you?"

"Offend Dobby!" the elf choked. "Dobby had never been asked to sit down by a wizard... like an equal..."

"Well, please be a bit more quiet, Dobby. If you intend to stay here for a while, you will have to get used to my treating you like any other guest."

"Guest..." Dobby repeated, his giant eyes brimming with tears. "Dobby, a guest... Dobby had never... never ever..." He sniffed loudly, but did not burst into loud tears again.

Harry waited for the house-elf to calm down before he said, "So, what brings you here, Dobby? Shouldn't you be with your bonded family... the Malfoys, or the Parkinsons?"

Dobby's eyes widened at that question. Harry, sensing what question Dobby was about to ask, felt obligated to explain.

"Your," he cleared his throat, "uniform... is spattered with a rare, red ink made from, among other things, Sphinx fur, a very expensive ink. It has been deliberately spattered on you, and only a spoiled family heir would be childish enough to do such a thing, and there are only two people in my school who use that ink: Draco Malfoy, and Pansy Parkinson. Now, judging by your reaction to the former, I'd say you are a Malfoy elf?"

Harry knew what would happen before it did. Dobby's legs had been tense ever since he heard his family name, and it had only been a matter of time before he launched himself toward the nearest solid object. Harry, however, dropped his fiddle and bow, lashing out and grabbing the scruff of Dobby's neck before he could harm himself, pushing him down on the bed.

"Relax, Dobby. You haven't said anything to warrant punishment," he said. He had read a lot about the peculiar behavior of house-elves, of how they felt a need to punish themselves if they did something they believed would anger their masters. "I have merely drawn my own conclusions, and though we both know that it's correct, let us not speak it."

Dobby frantically nodded, calming down. Harry felt certain that he wouldn't try to punish himself, so he let the elf go, scooting away from the elf again.

"Dobby has heard of your greatness, sir, but of your goodness, Dobby never knew," Dobby said, his eyes welling up with tears again. Emotional little blighter. Harry reached over to his bedside table, grabbing the pipe laying on the tobacco box there.

"So, what brings you here, Dobby?" Harry asked pleasantly as he started stuffing the pipe with tobacco. His aunt had complained about the tobacco smoke, and though Harry hadn't really cared for what upset her, her voice had been like nails on a chalkboard, so he had decided to only smoke his pipe in his room.

"Dobby heard tell, sir," Dobby said hoarsely, "that Harry Potter met He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named-"

"Voldemort?" Harry asked, taking a matchbook out of his pocket and lighting a match, putting it against the tobacco and puffing softly on his pipe.

Dobby clapped his ears over his bat ears and moaned, "Ah, speak not the name, sir! Speak not the name!"

"I refuse to be cowed by fear," Harry said coldly. He always got annoyed when people flinched at a mere name. "Fear of the name increases the fear of the thing itself. I do not fear the name, so I speak it freely."

Dobby nodded slowly, then leaned toward Harry, his eyes wide as headlights.

"Dobby heard tell that Harry Potter met the Dark Lord for a second time, just weeks ago... that Harry Potter escaped yet again."

"Correction," Harry said, pointing his pipe at Dobby, giving him a sharp look, "he escaped. I had him beat, and he fled."

Credit where credit is due, after all, he thought, chewing on his pipe and puffing on it. He did not go through all the trouble last year to solve the mystery of the Philosopher's Stone, only to have people say he was the one who escaped, when it was Voldemort who fled.

"Ah, sir," Dobby said, dabbing his eyes with a corner of the grubby pillowcase he was wearing. "Harry Potter is valiant and bold! He has braved so many dangers already! But Dobby has come to protect Harry Potter, to warn him, even if he does have to shut his ears in the oven door later... Harry Potter must not go back to Hogwarts."

There was a silence broken only by the chink of knives and forks from downstairs and the distant rumble of Uncle Vernon's voice. The Japanese golfer joke... Not very funny, and not at all suited for this dinner, Harry thought with a shake of his head.

"Well... ahem... Thank you for the warning, Dobby," Harry paused, puffing on his pipe, "but, uh, I'm afraid I am going to have to disregard it."

"No, no, no," Dobby squeaked, shaking his head so hard that his ears flapped again. "Harry Potter must stay where he is safe. He is too great, too good, to lose. If Harry Potter goes back to Hogwarts, he will be in mortal danger."

"I'm in mortal danger here," Harry said, watching Dobby's eyes widen. He had realized Dobby's intentions and character immediately. He wanted to protect Harry, and in order to avoid trouble from the house-elf, he needed to convince him that Hogwarts was a safer place that Privet Drive. "Dobby, my mind rebels at stagnation. I need problems, I need work, I need mysteries, and you have just presented me with a big mystery. I will be thinking about it, and if I cannot investigate it, I will without a doubt die."

Dobby flinched at the last word, giving a frightened squeak.

"Harry Potter jests, surely..." he murmured, gulping. "Dobby is sure Harry Potter-"

"I will grow frustrated, I will start trying to find things to take my mind off the events at Hogwarts, and I will end up thinking about it so much, I will stop eating, I will stop drinking, I'll stop sleeping... In short, I will die," Harry said with a ruthless coldness that was sure to get through the house-elf's stubbornness. Predictably, Dobby gave another squeak of fear.

"B-But, sir... There is a plot, Harry Potter. A plot to make the most terrible things happen at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry this year," he whispered, trembling all over. "Dobby has known it for months, sir. Please, Harry Potter must not put himself in peril. He is too great, sir!"

"Greatness is meaningless if it is left to rot in solitude," Harry countered immediately. "If I am so great, why would I need protection?"

Dobby opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. Harry suppressed a smirk. He had him now.

"Dobby agrees that Harry Potter is great, sir," the house-elf said, his ears drooping. "But Dobby does not wish for harm to come to Harry Potter..."

"If you believe in my greatness, Dobby, then believe me when I say that no matter what life throws at me, I will always come out on top," Harry said. He was loathe to admit it, but Snape, the Potions Master at Hogwarts, was right sometimes. Harry's ego was very large, and it was only inflated when he heard people compliment his brilliant mind. In his fourth year, Professor McGonagall, the Transfiguration teacher, had commented that his mind was almost as brilliant as Professor Dumbledore's. Of course, she didn't say it to his face, but he overheard her telling Professor Flitwik, the diminutive Charms professor this.

"Dobby wants to believe Harry Potter, sir..." Dobby mumbled, wringing his hands nervously.

"Listen, Dobby, I am going to Hogwarts, end of story," Harry said as he straightened up, pointing his pipe at Dobby again. "Have faith in me."

Harry gave himself a pat on the back in his mind when he saw Dobby give a shaky nod.

"Dobby will believe in Harry Potter, sir," he said, gulping. "Good luck, Harry Potter. Dobby must go now."

With a low bow, Dobby disappeared with a crack like a whip.

Now alone, Harry leaned his back against the headboard of his bed, puffing thoughtfully on his pipe.

"How intriguing..."

As an avid fan of Sherlock Holmes, Harry Potter had taken a liking to pretty much all aspects of Holmes. Therefore, it wasn't surprising that he had also taken a great liking to nineteenth century clothing. As he walked through King's Cross station, pushing a trolley upon which was his trunk, violin case, and Hedwig's cage, he drew strange looks, wearing beautiful handmade leather shoes, a pair of black high-waisted trousers held up by a big, black leather belt, a white dress shirt under a black frock coat, and a black cravat. On his head, he wore a wide-brimmed fedora.

Couple that with Uncle Vernon walking behind him, dressed considerably less handsomely, he made for an odd sight. Stopping at the barrier between platforms nine and ten, Harry turned to Uncle Vernon, giving him a nod.

"Well then, Uncle," he said pleasantly and loudly. There was nothing more amusing that having Uncle Vernon act polite toward him. The man didn't want him image ruined, although, in Harry's opinion, it was already ruined. "I guess this is goodbye for now. Until June, then."

"Goodbye, bo-" Uncle Vernon started, but corrected himself when he saw Harry's raised eyebrow, and the people around him, some of them staring. "Er, Harry..."

With a stiff nod, Uncle Vernon turned and lumbered away, no doubt grumbling to himself and wishing many a death upon Harry for putting him through that. He did that every year.

Having done this now four times already, Harry adopted a lazy, distant expression, though his eyes kept careful watch over the people around him. As soon as he was sure no one was looking, he leaned against the barrier between the two platforms, and easily slipped right through it with his trolley, ending up on platform Nine and Three-Quarters.

The scarlet steam engine, the Hogwarts Express, was waiting next to the platform, which was filled with people. Smoke from the engine drifted over the heads of the chattering crowd, while cats of every color wound here and there between their legs. Owls hooted to one another in a disgruntled sort of way over the babble and the scraping of heavy trunks.

The first few carriages were already packed with students, some hanging out of the window to talk to their families, some fighting over seats. Harry pushed his cart off down the platform in search of an empty seat.

It wasn't until he neared the end of the train that he heard a very familiar voice say, "You are late."

Looking up, Harry laid his eyes on his best friend, Neville Longbottom. Neville had once been a round-faced, slightly overweight boy, but in Harry's company, he had been forced to move a lot, and also forced to work out alongside Harry, going with him on his morning runs whenever Harry had little to do. Neville was leaning out the window of an empty compartment, save for him, smiling down at Harry.

"Nice outfit," Harry commented, stepping into the compartment to see that he, like Harry, wore handmade leather shoes, though his were brown, beige trousers held up by black braces, and a white button-up shirt with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He also wore a black, high crown bowler hat, which looked like a short top hat with rounded edges.

"Well," Neville said, smiling brightly, "you're not the only one with a fondness for nineteenth century clothing."

"Indeed," Harry said with an equally bright smile. "After all, Magical Britain is stuck in the nineteenth century, so why not dress as their Muggle counterpart?"

Together, the two brought Harry's trunk into the compartment, tucking it away in a corner. Hedwig's cage and the violin case ended up on the luggage rack. Both of them took a window seat across from each other, staring out at the throng of people crowding the platform.

"You still don't mind tobacco smoke, I trust?" Harry questioned as he reached into his coat pocket, taking out his pipe and matchbook.

"Go right ahead. I wouldn't be able to stand you if you weren't allowed to smoke, now you've taken that up," Neville said with a teasing smirk. "Merlin knows I've only barely survived the last four train rides. Hopefully, this one will be calmer."

"Your sense of humor continually sends me into such uncontrollable fits of laughter, Neville," Harry said, shaking his head as he lit his pipe, puffing on it.

"So, when will Hermione be showing up, do you wager?" Neville asked.

"Oh, I'd say in about five seconds," Harry said with a smirk. True to his words, no more or less than five seconds later, the door opened, and Hermione, Harry's other best friend, the bushy-haired smartest witch of their year, came inside, pulling her trunk behind her. Harry and Neville, always gentlemen, were quick to help her hoist it up on the luggage rack.

"Thank you, boys," Hermione said with a pleasant smile, before hugging Neville, and then Harry, who felt very uncomfortable when she did. He was great with many things. Physical affection, however, was something he knew nothing about, and therefore felt uncomfortable when confronted with it.

"And how was your summer, Hermione?" Harry asked, stepping back away from Hermione and sitting down again, chewing nervously on his pipe. He always got this strange feeling whenever Hermione hugged him. At first, he had confused it with love, but after extensive studying, he came to the conclusion that it wasn't. The feelings weren't strong enough for it to be love. It was some type of affection, though. "Aside from your prefectship, I mean," he said, having noticed the prefect badge gleaming on her chest.

"Dreadful," Hermione said with a tired sigh as she sat down next to Neville.

"I'll say," Harry agreed as he gave her a quick once-over.

"Alright, let's hear it," Hermione said with another sigh, this one a sigh of resignation. She seemed to have long since given up on trying to hide anything from Harry. "Nice clothes, by the way, Neville."

"Thank you," Neville beamed happily.

"You got into a fight with your parents," Harry said with a puff on his pipe, "several times. Not to mention, you have found yourself low on funds, and the solitude of your home is putting you on the verge of going insane."

A smirk made its way onto his face when he saw how the same resignation that had been evident in Hermione's sigh made its way onto her face. Neville also gave her a once-over, but then shook his head.

"I don't see it."

"It's simple," Harry said with a smirk. He always loved it when Neville marveled at his powers of deduction. "Whenever Hermione argues, she has a sharp tongue, but when she argues with someone she cares for, she picks at her cuticles. Hers are torn on both hands, suggesting several arguments. The low funding I can deduce from the fact that she refuses to allow her parents to pay for her school supplies, and given the large amount of Lockhart books on our book list, this has severely drained her purse. As for the solitude, well, that one was the easiest to deduce. If you pay close attention to her hands, you will find several scratches on them, no doubt from when she got her parents to take her to an animal shelter to adopt a new cat, with little success. Hermione, as you know, is not one to get a pet simply because she thinks they are cute, but because she needs the company."

"You know, you really get on my nerves sometimes," Hermione muttered, crossing her arms.

"But you have to admit, it's really amazing," Neville said with another bright smile, "for him to be able to come make such grand deductions from the tiniest of details."

Harry's chest puffed out ever so slightly. He felt a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. It felt good to be back with his friends. Even if nothing really interesting happened, it was still more enjoyable for him to spend time with his friends, than in the solitude of his room in Privet Drive. Speaking of which...

"Steering the conversation away from Hermione's lonely personal life," Harry said, skillfully ignoring Hermione's glare, "I got a strange visitor on my birthday."

And so, after lovingly extracting his violin from its case, Harry told his two friends of Dobby's visit and his warning. After the brief summary of the conversation he had with the house-elf, a silence ensued, broken only by the soft tunes from Harry's violin. With a sharp jerk with the bow across the strings, resulting in a sound almost as bad as nails across a chalkboard, Harry sat up straight, staring at the wall, though not staring at the wall. He had once more retreated into his mind, working hard.

"This plot intrigues me," he said thoughtfully. "Whatever it is, it was enough for a house-elf to disobey his masters just to warn me about it. A heavily punished house-elf at that."

"And for a house-elf to disobey its family, that's big," Neville agreed, his arms crossed as he stared out the window. The train had already started moving, and was now approaching top speed. "Did you notice-"

"The Malfoy family."

"Why bother asking if he noticed it?" Hermione asked, shaking her head in amusement. "Of course he noticed it."

"My mistake," Neville admitted with a laugh. Then, he adopted a thoughtful look, a look that no doubt would never have made its way onto his face without Harry's influence on him. "Gran told me about the Malfoy house-elf," he said. "And you're right, he is heavily punished. Gran says that she's heard Malfoy Sr. talk about how he makes the elf punish himself, even when he's done nothing wrong."

"That's horrible!" Hermione cried immediately. Harry just shrugged.

"That's Malfoy. What did you expect?"

The rest of the trip passed in relative silence, and when the train stopped at Hogsmeade station, the trio stepped out, taking long, deep breaths of what Harry had dubbed 'Hogwarts air,' the first of the year. It had become somewhat of a tradition for them to do so, every since they saw Harry do it when they stepped of the train starting their second year. Harry always found that dogs were onto something. One could always tell many things by smell. For example, Harry could tell that the seventh year that passed him wore a very cheap perfume, and lots of it, suggesting that she had self-esteem issues, and that she wasn't too well off when it came to money, but liked to pretend that she was.

Together, the three set off, waving to the towering gamekeeper Hagrid in the process, as they made their way up to the near hundred awaiting stagecoaches on the rough mud track. The stagecoaches were pulled by invisible horses. At first, Harry had believed them to be magicked to move by themselves, until their rainy third year, where he was able to notice hoof prints on the ground.

The trio climbed into an empty stagecoach, and as soon as they closed the door, it set off up the mud path. Harry, sitting comfortable with his violin case at his side, took another deep breath, this time taking in the smell of straw and mold in the carriage.

"Aah," he breathed happily, "putrefaction..."

"That's Hogwarts' most desired bachelor, sniffing and rejoicing in the smell of mold," Hermione commented from her place across from him, next to Neville. "If only the girls could see you now."

"With the sizable amount of gold in my account at Gringotts, only the most tenacious would persist in their foolish pursuit of my affections."

"So, what glorious hobby did you indulge yourself in this summer?" Neville asked, raising an eyebrow. Harry smiled.

"Can't you guess?" he asked, urging Neville to use deduction himself. Harry saw Neville as something of an apprentice. "Don't just look at me. Observe, Neville. Deduce."

Neville sighed and took off his hat, running a hand through his rat-colored hair, before looking at Harry, his eyes narrowed in concentration as he looked him over. He spent several minutes in silence, looking over Harry from head to toe.

"Your knuckles," he said suddenly, "they're bruised. And you have a faded bruise on your cheek. Muggle fighting?"

"Very good, Neville, very good," Harry said, nodding.

"And considering that you don't have a limp, it's a fighting sport where your legs are out of harm's way."

"Indeed," Harry said with another nod.

"Boxing?"

Harry applauded softly, smiling bright as a star at Neville, who blushed. Even after four years, he still wasn't completely able to handle praise.

"Very good, Neville. Yes, this summer was boxing. I am quite good at it, too, I discovered."

The carriage picked up speed as they made their way past a pair of magnificent wrought iron gates, flanked with stone columns topped with winged boars. It headed up the long, sloping road to the castle, Hermione as always leaning out the tiny window, watching the many turrets and towers draw nearer. She never seemed to tire of the sight, just like Harry.

At last, the carriage swayed to a halt, and Harry, Neville, and Hermione got out.

Harry smiled brightly as they made their way up the stone steps to the castle, and he looked up at it.

"It never gets old, does it?"

"Truly beautiful," Neville agreed. He, like Harry, probably considered the castle his home away from home, although Harry considered it more like his home away from Hell.

They went into the cavernous, torch-lit entrance hall, with its magnificent marble staircase, and then headed straight into the Great Hall. Making their way over to the Gryffindor table, they noticed that the seats they always sat in were once more vacant. No doubt, the rest of Gryffindor had by now learned that those seats were theirs.

Harry sat down with Hermione next to him, and Neville sat down across from him, as per usual.

"I'm famished," Neville said, taking off his hat. Harry and Neville had been a bit rebellious this year, and instead of changing into their robes, all they wore were their Gryffindor ties, along with a Gryffindor patch on their chests. McGonagall was going to be angry, but Harry was much more comfortable in his frock coat.

"Hey, look up at the Head Table, see who is our new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher!" Hermione said suddenly, a strange tone of admiration in her voice. Harry looked over, and immediately he feared for the Defense Against the Dark Arts grades for the OWL and NEWT students.

Sitting next to the sallow-skinned and greasy-haired Professor Snape, dressed in robes of aquamarine, his pointed hat set at a jaunty angle, was Gilderoy Lockhart, a dazzling smile on his face.

"Well, I have never been more happy about being able to learn on my own than I am now," Harry commented lightly, shaking his head in disbelief. How could Dumbledore, the wise old man sitting in the middle of the Head Table, in a high-backed chair, allow someone like Lockhart to teach?

"Why?" Hermione asked in surprise. "We're going to be taught by Gilderoy Lockhart!"

"We'll be taught by a fraud, then," Harry said simply. Seeing Hermione look of disbelief, he explained his reasoning. "Lockhart claims in Voyages with Vampires that he slew the Terror of Minsk in December, nineteen ninety, yet curiously, that was the same month that he fought the Wagga Wagga Werewolf according to Wanderings with Werewolves. And no, Hermione, it wasn't the only fault I found. In Year with the Yeti, he claimed that he was traveling through Norway in January, eighty-five, yet according to Break with the Banshee, that was the same month he got rid of the Bandon Banshee. There is a total of seventeen more overlapping events that I have found, not to mention the ridiculous spells he claims to have used. They sound more like something he has just invented on the spot to make it sound impressive."

When Hermione opened her mouth to argue, Harry cut her off with a stare, before continuing.

"The man has the posture of a man who puts up a show of confidence to hide his fears, as well as an over the top amount of knowledge and skill to hide his incompetence."

When Hermione opened her mouth this time, Neville was the one who cut her off.

"Hermione, how often has Harry judged someone wrongly?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. "I mean, last year he was the only one of us who believed that Snape wasn't trying to steal the Stone."

"Yes, but... all of what Lockhart says he's done has actually been done."

"Not really," Harry said, shaking his head. "The Wagga Wagga Werewolf was a complete and utter lie. I mean, the village was brought out of harm's way, but that was only because the werewolf was given access to the Wolfsbane potion. There is no spell to cure lycanthropy."

"You really do love tearing down all my dreams and beliefs, don't you?" Hermione asked, giving Harry a light, but obviously playful, glare.

"Well, I don't take pleasure in doing so, but what I do take pleasure in is being right."

"Harry Potter and his ego, the most annoying pair in the world."

"From your point of view."


	3. Chapter 3

Neville Longbottom was a strange lad. Whereas most people his age would admire the truly famous wizards, such as Albus Dumbledore, Nicolas Flamel, Andros the Invincible, Cornelius Agrippa, the Hogwarts Founders, and others, Neville only had one person that he admired, and that was none other than a person his own age, Harry James Potter, the, in Neville's opinion, most brilliant wizard in the world. Already at age fourteen, he had a mind that rivaled that of Dumbledore's own.

The first time Neville met Harry Potter, he was surprised at the boy's behavior. He was unlike anyone Neville had ever met, both magic and Muggle. His ignorance was as remarkable as his knowledge. Of contemporary literature, philosophy and both magic and Muggle politics, he seemed to know next to nothing. He was a mystery, period. Even though he was self-taught, even at eleven, he could talk about things that Neville was sure even his Gran had never heard about. He seemed to have intimate knowledge of human anatomy, botany, sensational literature, chemistry, Muggle and wizard laws, and all kinds of fields, but in some, he was completely ignorant. When Neville had quoted Eric Goldskin, a very famous Astronomer, Harry had inquired in the naivest way possible who he might be and what he had done.

The boy had further surprised Neville with his amazing powers of deduction, analyzing Neville with a mere glance and telling him things about himself that even he himself didn't even know.

After that meeting, Neville decided to find out more about the mysterious Harry Potter. The two had quickly become friends, and Neville, a very forgetful and slow boy who barely managed with magic, started to learn from Harry. It was as if Harry's presence unlocked something in him, unlocked his potential and allowed him to learn things properly. His Gran had been immensely proud when Neville came home from first year with above average grades, all thanks to Harry Potter. On that train ride, they had also befriended Hermione Granger.

Harry was an enigma wrapped in a mystery. He was the best friend one could ever ask for, but at times, he was very strange. His powers upon the violin were very remarkable, but as eccentric as all his other accomplishments. He could play pieces, difficult pieces, very well. When left to himself, however, he would seldom produce any music or attempt any recognized air. Leaning back in an armchair in the Gryffindor common room, or sitting on his bed in the dorm, his back against his pillows, he would close his eyes and scrape carelessly at the fiddle which was thrown across his knee. Sometimes, the chords were sonorous and melancholy, and occasionally they were fantastic and cheerful. Clearly, they reflected the thoughts he was having, but whether the music aided those thoughts, or whether the playing was simply the result of a whim or fancy, Neville couldn't determine.

Last year, in their fourth year, Harry had adopted two new quirks. He had developed a love for olives, always green olives, and he refused to eat them if they were not stuffed with paprika. When faced with the mystery of the Philosopher's Stone, whenever he was deep in thought, he would bring an armchair up to their dorm, and would sit by the window, simply staring down at the grounds, sometimes for hours on end, seemingly without even blinking, although by the moisture in Harry's eyes, Neville could tell that he did, in fact, blink, although he did so between lengthy intervals.

Harry Potter was someone who brought out the best in Neville, and for that Neville was eternally grateful. Before he met Harry, Neville was a bumbling, forgetful fool with no skills whatsoever. Then, he met Harry, learned from Harry, studied with Harry, and he found that next to him, anything became... well, possible. Neville had thought it impossible for him to get good grades. Harry showed him that it was possible.

When Neville came down the stairs from the Gryffindor dorm into the common room, his eyes immediately landed on the common room notice board, where a large new sign had been put up.

Consultant Detective!

Lost something? Someone missing? Something stolen?

For the small fee of one Sickle per day, I will solve any problem you throw at me.

Contact Harry Potter,

Gryffindor common room,

or the Great Hall at breakfast, lunch, or dinner.

(I withhold the right to decline any case of my choosing)

"Like it?" came Harry's voice from behind him. Neville spun around to find his friend smiling brightly at him. This morning, Harry was dressed much simpler than yesterday. He still wore the hat and the shoes, but he had changed to trousers of a lighter shade of black, held up by black braces, and a voluminous white soft collar shirt, under the collar of which could be seen a blue and white striped herringbone silk scarf.

"Did you post these everywhere?" Neville asked, gesturing with the hat in his hand toward the sign.

"Indeed I did!" Harry said proudly, nodding.

"And you believe that people will come to you with their problems?" Neville asked, making his way over to the portrait hole with Harry, climbing through it and out of the common room.

"Ah, that question is easily answered. See, with my title of Boy-Who-Lived, coupled with the fact that I solved the mystery of the Philosopher's Stone last year, and my excellent grades, I can say with certainty that, at the very least, half the student body will come to me with their problems."

"This will be a difficult year for you, then," Neville commented as they made their way toward the Great Hall for breakfast, "what with the OWLs this year and all."

"The OWLs will be a breeze, now that my mind won't be rotting from stagnation," Harry said with a very happy look on his face.

It was very odd to Neville. Whenever there was nothing to do, most teenagers would rejoice, but not Harry. He hated it. He needed work, apparently. His mind was so set on solving problems, analyzing, deducing, learning, that he couldn't cope with stagnation.

They followed the Ravenclaws into the Great Hall, finding that Hermione was already there, eating breakfast. She was surprisingly fast this morning. Usually, Neville and Harry managed to beat her to the common room, and they'd all go down to breakfast together.

"Good morning," Hermione greeted as the duo sat down. "Nice signs, Harry."

"Thank you," Harry said happily. Whether Hermione was sarcastic or not, Neville didn't know, and Harry showed no sign of recognizing any sarcasm, but even if he did, he wouldn't have shown it.

The enchanted ceiling above them seemed to echo Harry's mood whenever they came in, blue and bright now. If he was depressed, there always seemed to be miserable rain clouds above them, but when he was happy, it was clear blue, with the bright sun shining down on them. Neville had always suspected that Harry had tampered with the ceiling, but surely he wasn't great enough a wizard for that, right?

"Potter! Longbottom!"

Both boys turned when they heard the sharp tongue of Professor McGonagall, who was currently moving along the table handing out schedules.

"Good morning, Professor," Harry greeted pleasantly with a nod.

"What are you two wearing?" Professor McGonagall demanded. "Where are your school uniforms?"

"Well, we work much better in clothes we feel comfortable in, Professor," Neville answered hesitantly. He wasn't quite as good at dealing with authority figures as Harry, who showed a rebellious disregard for rules wherever he went. Harry had always said that both mind and body only flourished when they were free.

"Besides, I have always found the school uniforms to be rather dreary, don't you think, Professor?" Harry quipped, still that pleasant, polite smile on his face. For the life of him, Neville couldn't understand how Harry managed to do it. He could look polite as ever, even happy, yet could easily insult people while keeping up that look.

"That does not matter, Mr. Potter!" Professor McGonagall barked, and even Neville could clearly tell that her body language screamed anger. "The rules clearly state that-"

"Actually," Harry interrupted with a cheeky smile on his face, "the rules only state that a student must purchase and bring a school uniform. There is nothing in the rules that states that students have to wear the uniforms."

Professor McGonagall bristled, and she was clearly about to shout, when a pleasant voice cut her off before she had even started.

"Is there a problem, Minerva?"

Having made his way down from the Head Table was Professor Dumbledore himself. His blue eyes were twinkling merrily as they looked from Neville to Harry, then to Professor McGonagall.

"Headmaster, Potter is refusing to wear his school uniform," Professor McGonagall told the headmaster. Before Dumbledore could speak, however, Harry opened his mouth.

"Actually, it's not so much that I refuse to wear the uniform, I just choose not to. Article fifteen, paragraph eight, of the school charter clearly states that a student must purchase and bring three sets of plain work robes, black, one plain pointed hat, black, for day wear, and one winter cloak. It never says that one has to actually wear the clothes," Harry said with a peaceful calm that Neville would never have been able to manage in the presence of Professor Dumbledore.

"Headmaster..." Professor McGonagall said, probably urging Professor Dumbledore to object. Dumbledore, however, smiled.

"Upon consulting my memories, I have found that, indeed, the charter does not state that a student has to wear the uniform," Professor Dumbledore stated, and Neville made sure to burn the image of a gaping Professor McGonagall into his mind.

"Albus, you can't be serious! He-"

"What would you have me do, Minerva?" Professor Dumbledore asked kindly. "Harry and Neville have broken no rules, and so, I am unable to do anything. We are certainly no tyrants here at Hogwarts, punishing students for not breaking rules. Come now, Minerva, back to work," he said, sounding about as happy as Harry. He nodded to Harry, then to Neville. "Boys, be good this year. Or at least, as good as you can be."

Then, with twinkling eyes, Professor Dumbledore walked back to the Head Table, leaving Neville and Harry to relish in the victory, while Professor McGonagall grumpily handed them their schedules, before briskly moving away.

"I have never been happier that you read any book you come across, did you know that?" Neville said with a bright smile as the two looked over their schedules.

"You two are the luckiest people in the world, did you know that?" Hermione asked, amusement evident on her face. "I mean, who else but you two could get away with not wearing the school uniform?"

"Oh, it's not luck, Hermione," Harry said with a smile, taking out his pipe and putting it in his mouth. "It was merely prudent planning. I would never break the rules without a good reason, and wearing the clothing of my choosing is not a good enough reason."

"Interesting day today," Neville commented with a hum as he looked over his schedule. "History of Magic, double Potions, Arithmancy, and double Runes, oh and double Defense Against the Dark Arts tomorrow."

"Oh, joy, An hour and a half with the fraud..." Harry muttered, chewing thoughtfully on his pipe.

Neville laughed at his friend's obvious dislike of Lockhart, patting him on the back sympathetically.

"Well, think of it this way, we'll get a new one next year."

"At least that's something to look forward to..."

"Settle down," Snape said coldly, as Neville, Harry, and Hermione sat at their usual table in the back of the Potions classroom in the dungeons. There was no real need for the call to order. The moment the class had heard the door close behind Snape, quiet had fallen and all fidgeting had stopped. Snape's mere presence was usually enough to ensure a class's silence.

That was another thing Harry had helped Neville with. Although Snape still was Neville's probably greatest fear, Harry had helped Neville ignore those feelings while in the Potions classroom, allowing him to focus on making his potions properly, to great success at that.

"Before we begin today's lesson," Snape said, sweeping over to his desk and staring around at them all, "I think it appropriate to remind you that next June you will be sitting an important examination, during which you will prove how much you have learned about the composition and use of magical potions. Moronic though some of this class undoubtedly are, I expect you to scrape an 'Acceptable' in your OWL, or suffer my... displeasure."

His gaze lingered on Neville, who felt that familiar fear springing up inside him, but he closed his eyes and took a deep breath, calming himself. As Harry said, fear would build more fear, and get in the way of his work. It was better to simply nip the problem in the bud and focus on the task at hand.

"After this year, of course, many of you will cease studying with me," Snape went on. "I take only the very best into my NEWT Potions class, which means that some of us will certainly be saying good-bye."

His eyes rested on Harry, then Neville, and a few other Gryffindors. Neville glared back. He'd show him. He'd get an O in his OWL, and show Snape that he wasn't the dunderhead the greasy-haired Potions master believed him to be. Feeling that he was getting angry, another feeling that got in the way of work, Neville tried to calm himself down, and looked to Harry, who was staring back at Snape with a calm, almost curious and inquisitive look on his face, a look that looked eerily like Professor Dumbledore's. How often had Neville wished that he had the same control over his emotions as Harry had?

"Today, we will be mixing a potion that often comes up at Ordinary Wizarding Level: the Draught of Peace, a potion to calm anxiety and soothe agitation. Be warned: If you are too heavy-handed with the ingredients you will put the drinker into a heavy and sometimes irreversible sleep, so you will need to pay close attention to what you are doing." Neville had to suppress a chuckle when he saw Hermione sitting up a little straighter, her expression one of the utmost attentiveness. "The ingredients and method," Snape flicked his wand, "are on the blackboard. You will find everything you need in the store cupboard. You have an hour and a half... Start."

Just as Harry had predicted before the lesson, Snape could hardly have set them a more difficult, fiddly potion. The ingredients had to be added to the cauldron in precisely the right order and quantities, the mixture had to be stirred exactly the right number of times, firstly in clockwise, then in counterclockwise directions, the heat of the flames on which it was simmering had to be lowered to exactly the right level for a specific number of minutes before the final ingredient was added.

"A light silver vapor should now be rising from your potion," Snape called when there was ten minutes left to go.

Neville, who was sweating profusely, looked around the dungeon. His own cauldron had a silver vapor, although it was closer to gray, Ronald Weasley's cauldron was spitting green sparks, Seamus Finnigan was feverishly prodding the flames at the base of his cauldron with the tip of his wand, as they had gone out. The surface of Harry's potion, along with Hermione's, however, were a shimmering mist of silver vapor, and as Snape swept by, he looked down his hooked nose at them without comment, which meant that he could find nothing to criticize. When he stopped at Neville's cauldron, however, he looked at him with a cold look on his face.

"Tell me, Longbottom," Snape said softly, "can you read?"

"Yes, sir," Neville said, knowing that he had forgotten an ingredient now.

"Read the third line of the instructions for me, Longbottom."

Neville squinted at the blackboard. It wasn't easy to make out the instructions through the haze of multicolored steam now filling the dungeon.

"'Add powdered moonstone, stir three times counterclockwise, allow to simmer for seven minutes, then add two drops of...' Oh..." Neville stopped reading. Two drops of syrup of hellebore... Neville had only added one drop…

"Did you do everything on the third line, Longbottom?"

"No, sir," Neville answered, steeling his voice. Never show fear. He preys on it, Harry had said. "I forgot to add the second drop of hellebore."

"I know you did, Longbottom," Snape said, glaring down at Neville, "which means that this potion is hardly worthy of an Exceeds Expectations, let alone an Outstanding. It is barely an Acceptable. Do better next time, Longbottom..."

"Yes, sir," Neville said through gritted teeth.

After the class, when everyone had handed in their horrible attempts at the potion, and Neville, Harry and Hermione had handed in their potions and left the dungeon, Neville gave off a very displeased noise, feeling thoroughly tempted to throw his hat to the ground and stomp on it.

"Can you believe how unfair he was?" Neville demanded angrily. "One simple mistake, and it barely made Acceptable!"

"Well, that's Snape's grading system, isn't it?" Harry reasoned with a shrug. "If this was a real OWL examination, you would no doubt have gotten an Exceeds Expectations, if not an Outstanding."

"I agree," Hermione said. "The purpose of the hellebore is to determine how long the effects of the potion will last. All you did was halve the duration."

"Do not worry yourself about it, Neville, old boy," Harry said, patting Neville on the back. "You did marvelously."

That was probably the greatest thing about the mysterious Harry Potter. He could always make Neville feel good about himself. He seemed to value the few true friends he had, and would do just about anything to cheer them up.


	4. Chapter 4

"I don't believe you," Neville said, shaking his head. On the morning of September the third, Harry Potter wasn't just sitting quietly, enjoying his breakfast like the other students. No, Harry, wearing the same type of clothes as yesterday, only with a clean shirt, was working on the foot-long essay Snape had demanded on the use of moonstones. "You're probably the only one I know who enjoys working more than relaxing..."

"To me, they are the same thing," Harry said calmly, adding the last few sentences to his essay. "You should try the same thing once in a while, exert yourself."

"I am perfectly fine like this, thank you," Neville said, going back to his toast. It was amazing to him, how Harry's mind calmed down with work, and got stressed without it. His brain worked in the opposite way of pretty much any other person in the school, save, perhaps, Professor Dumbledore. "You know what? I'm going to chronicle you."

"Pardon?" Harry asked as he looked up at Neville, blinking.

"You're going to be big, there's little doubt about that," Neville said. "That Holmes that you so admire, he was a detective, wasn't he?"

"Consultant detective, yes," Harry confirmed with a nod.

"Well, I'm guessing that you will be following the same path one day. I am going to chronicle you, starting with the Man with Two Faces."

"Catchy title," Harry said, laughing. "How long did you work on that?"

"Longer than I want to admit," Neville said, also laughing.

"Well, good luck with that, if you can remember correctly what happened last year."

"I think I can, but you will have to give a detailed account of what happened when you were alone with Quirrel."

"Certainly. Tonight, after dinner?"

Neville blinked in surprise. Didn't they have homework?

"But we have the essay for Professor Vector, and the one for Professor Sprout, to do tonight, don't we?"

"I finished them last night," Harry said, dotting the final word on his essay, "and now I have finished Snape's essay. I am free to give my account of what happened."

Neville was conflicted. He needed to do the Arithmancy essay, as that was due tomorrow, and then he had to do the Herbology for Friday...

"Tell you what," Neville said, getting an idea. "How about you write it down?"

"Write it down?"

"Yes. Tonight, while I'm doing my essays. I have to do them, and if you're left with nothing to do, you will drive me mad. Therefore, you can write down what happened with Quirrel, while I work on the essay."

"Very well."

With that, Harry shook Neville's hand, sealing the deal. That was another strange habit of Harry's that Neville had noticed. He shook hands a lot. A man's word was his bond, Harry always said, and a handshake was a means of ensuring that the word would not be broken, so even for the tiniest promises and deals, Harry always demanded that one should shake hands. If someone broke their word, however, they were forever cursed with Harry's dislike. In their first year, the then third-year student Alicia Spinnet had promised him something (Neville didn't know what, and despite asking several times, he never got an answer), and she hadn't followed through with it. After that, Harry hardly ever spoke to her again, and even refused to join the Gryffindor Quidditch team on account of her being a member of said team. Neville had never seen Oliver Wood that furious before.

After breakfast, they all headed to the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, in which they hadn't really learned anything useful since their third year, when Professor Brown was teaching. She had quit, of course, because she wasn't quite suited for the mental strain a teaching position provided. Neville, and he was sure Harry and Hermione felt the same, was very sad to see her leave. She still sent Harry Christmas cards, strangely enough. Neville didn't know why, though, and Harry didn't tell him, nor did he tell Hermione, even though they had asked him near hundreds of times.

They took their seats in the back of the room, and Neville noticed that Harry, when digging all seven of Lockhart's books out of his back, placed them on his desk in the most peculiar fashion. It was like he built a wall in front of him out of the books, leaving only small slits between the books to look through.

Neville found out why when Lockhart came into the classroom. He was dressed in sweeping robes of turquoise, his golden hair shining under a perfectly positioned turquoise hat with gold trimmings. Shining was an apt description for him. Neville should have known... As he glanced at Harry, he realized why he'd stacked the books that way. Harry had seen Lockhart during breakfast, and stacked the books like that to avoid having to look at Lockhart too much...

Looking around, probably to see if the whole class was seated (it was), Lockhart cleared his throat loudly, and silence fell. He reached forward, picked up Dean Thomas' cope of Travels with Trolls, and held it up to show his own, winking portrait on the front.

"Me," he said, pointing at it and winking as well. "Gilderoy Lockhart, Order of Merlin, Third Class, Honorary Member of the Dark Force Defense League, and five-time winner of Witch Weekly's Most-Charming-Smile Award... but I don't talk about that. I didn't get rid of the Bandon Banshee by smiling at her!"

He waited for them to laugh, but all he got was a few weak smiles from some of them.

"I-"

Lockhart cut himself off, staring toward the back of the class. From next to him, Neville could see Harry's hand in the air, a bored look on his face.

"Yes, uh..." Lockhart raised his head to try to see who was sitting behind the books. Then, noticing who it was, a radiant smile appeared on his face again. "Ah, Harry! Yes, what is it, my boy?"

"It's Ban-shee, sir."

"Pardon?" Lockhart questioned, blinking.

"It's pronounced Ban-shee, sir, not Ban-shee," Harry said, and Neville had to suppress his smile. Leave it to Harry to find the slightest fault in the people he didn't like. Other students weren't as good at hiding their amusement. Most were openly smiling, and some were chuckling.

Lockhart looked stunned for a few moments. Then, he cleared his throat loudly again.

"Yes, well... Thank you, Harry. But now, something much more important!" he exclaimed, holding up a rather large stack of papers. "I see you've all bought a complete set of my books, well done. I thought we'd start today with a little quiz. Nothing to worry about, just to check how well you've read them, how much you've taken in..."

When he had handed out the test papers, he returned to the front of the class and said, "You have thirty minutes. Start... now!"

Neville looked down at his paper, and felt sickened.

1\. What is Gilderoy Lockhart's favorite color?

2\. What is Gilderoy Lockhart's secret ambition?

3\. What, in your opinion, is Gilderoy Lockhart's greatest achievement to date?

"Wow, this guy truly loves himself, doesn't he?" Neville whispered to Harry, who was giving the paper a once-over with a bored look on his face.

"Like a modern day Narcissus," his friend muttered. Then, however, he put his pipe in his mouth, dipped his quill in an ink well, and got to work.

On and on it went, Neville noticed, over three sides of paper, right down to:

54\. When is Gilderoy Lockhart's birthday, and what would his ideal gift be?

Neville decided, wisely in his opinion, not to answer any of the questions, for he was sure that if he did, he would surely say something incredibly scathing. Harry, it seemed, had no problem with giving such answers, as evident by the speed with which his quill worked on the test paper, and by the mischievous glint in his eye.

Neville had to admit, Harry looked a lot better without his glasses. At the end of their fourth year, Harry had pleaded with Madame Pomfrey, the school nurse, to perform an operation on him that he had read about in some old tome in the library, one which would repair eye damage. It had taken a lot of coaxing, as the charm required had a fifty-fifty chance of success, and if it failed, it could permanently blind the pages, and in some extreme cases kill them.

Half an hour later, Lockhart collected the papers and rifled through them in front of the class. When he, quite obviously, came upon Harry's test paper, he flinched as if struck, and Neville, having developed surprisingly good powers of observation during his time as Harry's friend, could see faint traces of sweat breaking out on his forehead, and a look of fear in his eyes.

Then, however, Lockhart cleared his throat and went on as if he hadn't even seen that particular test paper.

"Tut, tut," he said chidingly, although with a somewhat shaky voice, a voice which, Neville noticed, cause Harry to smile with satisfaction, a theory confirmed, "hardly any of you remembered that my favorite color is lilac. I say so in Year with the Yeti. And a few of you need to read Wanderings with Werewolves more carefully... I clearly state in chapter twelve that my ideal birthday gift would be harmony between all magic and non-magic peoples, though I wouldn't say no to a large bottle of Ogden's Old Firewhisky!"

He gave them a roguish wink. Neville felt like he was going to be sick right there, and he saw that Dean and Seamus were hardly able to suppress their laughter. Hermione, on the other hand, was the most curious. She was listening to Lockhart with rapt attention, but she had this look on her face, like she wasn't believing what her senses told her. She looked conflicted. She gave a start when her mentioned her name.

"...but Miss Hermione Granger knew my secret ambition is to rid the world of evil and market my own range of hair-care potions, good girl! In fact," he said as he flipped the paper over, "full marks! Where is Miss Hermione Granger?"

Hermione slowly raised a somewhat trembling hand, still the same look of conflicting emotions on her face.

"Excellent!" Lockhart beamed. "Quite excellent! Take ten points for Gryffindor! And so, to business..."

He bent down behind his desk and lifted a large, covered cage onto it.

"Now, be warned! It is my job to arm you against the foulest creatures known to wizardkind! You may find yourselves facing your worst fears in this room. Know only that no harm can befall you whilst I am here. All I ask is that you remain calm."

Neville furrowed his brow. He heard noises from the cage, very familiar noises... Where had he heard those noises before? Harry, however, wore a look of boredom again. No doubt, he already knew what was in the cage.

"I ask you not to scream," Lockhart said in a low voice. "It might provoke them."

He looked just about to whip the cover off the cage, when Harry's hand shot into the air. Lockhart hesitated, the same look of fear entering his eyes again. Then, "Yes, Harry?"

"We have already covered Cornish pixies," Harry said, and it was as if he had draped a warm blanket around the whole class. Those who had been fidgeting nervously in their seats were now staring at Lockhart with mild disbelief on their faces.

"Pardon?"

Neville briefly wondered if Harry having to repeat himself was going to become a pattern with Lockhart. Harry didn't like repeating himself, and he clearly was a bit frustrated now, judging by the frown on his face.

"I said, we have already covered Cornish pixies, sir. We covered them in our second year."

"Did you?" Lockhart asked, blinking in confusion. "Well then... Er... Alright, I suppose we need something else to go over on this lesson... How about we just... no... yes! I'll read you some from one of my books. Suggestions for which one to read?"

Silence...

"Very well, then! I'll pick, shall I?"

And so, the rest of the lesson was spent listening to Lockhart reading out of Year with the Yeti, a most boring way to spend the time. He was so immersed in his own story, that he didn't notice that Neville and Harry started playing tic-tac-toe in the back of the class, something that Professor McGonagall would have noticed quicker than Neville would have even been able to put down the first X.

On the fifth, the thing that Harry had been waiting for arrived: a mystery. On one of his late night strolls, wandering aimlessly around the castle, smoking his pipe, Harry suddenly stopped when he heard something.

It was a voice, a voice to chill the bone marrow, a voice of breath-taking, ice-cold venom...

"Come... come to me... Let me rip you... Let me tear you... Let me kill you..."

Harry froze mid-step when he heard the voice, straining his ears. However, the voice didn't appear again. Where had that come from? From his left, but there was nothing there but wall. On the other side of the wall, maybe? Cocking his head to the side, he sat down right there, in the middle of the corridor, staring at it.

A voice in the wall? Even by Hogwarts standards, that wasn't normal. The voice had vanished as suddenly as it had appeared. It had passed quickly, mumbling to itself, probably.

With nothing else on his mind, Harry rose from his sitting position and walked off in the direction the voice had been heading. He must have gone through the castle at least twice that night, trying to hear the voice again, but to no avail. After about three hours of searching, he decided to give up for that night, and headed back to the Gryffindor Tower in disappointment where, immediately the next morning after breakfast, he told his friends what he had heard.

"Think it was someone invisible?" Neville asked as Harry sat with him and Hermione in the common room. Well, Hermione and Neville were sitting. Harry was lying on one of the couches, pipe in mouth, his hands behind his head as he stared up at the ceiling thoughtfully.

"It was no one invisible, as there were no footsteps, no sounds or anything, other than the voice, and it came from inside the wall," Harry said with a hum. "I don't understand it... It wasn't a Hogwarts ghost, I am definitely sure about that."

"It wasn't just Peeves pulling your leg, then?" Neville asked, and Harry shook his head.

"Peeves likes his pranks, but he wouldn't say anything about murder, or Dumbledore would have him banished in a heart-beat. No, this was something different..."

"This is unusual," Hermione said with cheeky smirk. "Usually, you would have made a massive deduction from that little alone."

Harry sighed. Hermione, always one to jump at every opportunity she should to try to deflate his ego. He appreciated her attempts at doing so, but in all honesty, it was a wasted effort.

"Whatever it was, it's capable of moving through the walls, it mumbles to itself, is eager to kill. It is solid, and very large, probably serpentine in nature, though what species it is, I don't know," Harry said. "It is, however, without a doubt the danger Dobby came to warn me about..."

As usual, whenever Harry came up with a theory, Hermione started listing possible answers to the mysteries, always being one to theorize before she had enough data to do so, and Neville merely stared at him. Neville seemed to have taken to studying Harry, as whenever the Potter genius took out his pipe and started puffing on it thoughtfully, Neville would adjust himself to a comfortable position in his seat, and just stare at Harry. He, like Harry seemed to be ignoring Hermione.


	5. Chapter 5

Neville watched his best friend sitting deep in thought, no doubt having thousands of different scenarios and possibilities playing out in his head. It was always interesting watching Harry think. Sometimes, his head would cock ever so slightly to the side, as if he had a hard time believing that he had come up with a theory that sounded either impossible, or brilliant. It seemed to Neville that Harry amazed even himself sometimes.

The one thing that frustrated Neville, however, was that Harry hardly ever revealed his theories. He revealed his discoveries, and certain deductions, but never his complete theories on what had happened, or who someone was, or anything of the sort until the very end, right before the unveiling. To some, Harry's look of delight whenever his conclusions were revealed to be true might have seemed as though he was relieved that he was right, but Neville knew the truth. Harry's looks of delight weren't because he had been right; they were because he had been right all along, but no one else could have made the realization as early as Harry had.

Sometimes, Harry would make a little "Aha" when he investigated something, and after four years, Neville had learned that that usually meant that Harry had either discovered a culprit, motive, method, or all three simply by looking over a few details.

With a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth, Neville closed the book in his lap and laid a piece of parchment on it, picking up his quill.

Many know of Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, the man who vanquished the Dark Lord Voldemort (Neville had a bit of trouble writing the name) at the tender age of one. Not many, however, know of Harry Potter, the detective. I first met Harry...

Neville smiled down at what he'd written. He smiled, though he didn't know if it was a good start...

He was broken from his thoughts when Harry gave a somewhat pitiful noise and took out his pipe, slowly, almost hesitantly, reaching for the ebony box of tobacco by his chair. He had had that box there every since the start of the year, and it seemed that everyone respected Harry enough to leave it alone. Why had he hesitated in reaching for it, though?

"Hermione," Harry spoke suddenly. All hesitation disappeared from his posture, and he opened the box and started filling his pipe. Hermione, who had been in the process of naming pretty much every snake she knew, Neville didn't know, but he was sure Harry had heard every word, stopped and blinked at Harry.

"Yes?" she asked.

Harry was silent as he stuffed his pipe slowly, carefully, studying it.

"That fourth-year girl, the redhead, her name is... Weasley, right?"

"Yes, Ginny Weasley, she's Ronald Weasley's little sister," Hermione responded, no doubt wondering, just like Neville did, what Harry wanted with her.

"If you see her, please tell her not to touch my tobacco," Harry said softly and struck a match, lighting his pipe.

Neville's gaze went directly over to the tobacco box. It looked just the same as usual... He saw Hermione about to open her mouth, but held up his hand in amusement to stop her from speaking.

"Leave it," Neville told Hermione and jerked his head toward Harry, who was now staring at the fire, puffing on the pipe. "He's smoking right now, and I think it's too trivial a detail for him to explain that gave her away." Hermione opened her mouth again, but Neville beat her to it. "Trivial to his mind."

"...the wall..." Neville heard his friend mumble. He doubted even Hermione heard what he said. Harry always made thoughtful noises, but Neville had been listening to them for the last four years now, even at night up in their dorm, so he had learned to pick up on snippets of sentences that Harry muttered to himself.

Maybe, just maybe, this was something that could keep Harry occupied. Mysteries, work, something that he couldn't solve in a heartbeat, those were the things Harry reveled in, and if this was one of those mysteries, then Neville was sure that this was going to be a good year for the both of them.

Smiling fondly at his friend, he looked back down at what he had been writing.

...and as a boy, he was very strange, by wizard standards. Raised a Muggle, he found the magical world to be fascinating. Studies, he loved them, and with the introduction to the magical world, he had found a lot more reading material...

October arrived quickly, with no more noises in the walls, no more clues, no more tiny little details, something that had Harry greet Neville every morning with a bright smile on his face, despite the horrible weather. The sudden spate of colds had certainly dampened the mood for both students and teachers, but not Harry and Neville. Harry was merely relishing in going back to that same spot where he had heard the voice, searching and searching, while Neville sat by, working on his book.

The first time I discovered how far Harry would go to prove a theory right was on a rainy Sunday afternoon in March, 1994. Draco Malfoy had always been a cruel boy, always discriminated against anyone who wasn't a rich pure-blood. I remember, Harry said to me, "Look at that boy. His posture screams arrogance. He believes in the power of money, and believes that said money can get him out of any trouble, especially with his father in a high position, probably on the School Board or a high position in the Ministry. He believes himself to be better than everyone else because of his family status, and he will defend his family's name against any insult."

"But is that wise?" I asked him, watching the pale-eyed boy sneering at a passing first-year.

"Of course not. He is a mediocre wizard, if even that, and he knows it, which is why he has those two goons flanking him at all times," my friend told me, gesturing for Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle, two hulking pure-blooded Slytherins who were always at Malfoy's side. "Now, it is not because of loyalty to Malfoy that they stay with him, mind you," he continued pleasantly. "They are a bit smarter than one might think, and the only reason they obey him is because Malfoy's father is in a higher position than their fathers. So, if push comes to shove, and Malfoy needs to defend his family, he will not draw his wand if he recognizes views someone as stronger than him, and will instead have those two fight for him, due to his own lack of magical knowledge, and because of a deep fear that he hides behind his mask of arrogance."

Now, Malfoy had only spoken to us properly once or twice, so I naturally had a hard time believing that my friend could deduce all that from simply looking at him. He seemed to have sensed my doubts though, as without a word, he rose from his position at my side and walked right over to Malfoy...

"What are you writing?" Harry's voice reached Neville's ears, and he looked up at Harry, who was still staring at the wall, chewing on his pipe. Neville smiled.

"Third year, when you proved your theory about Malfoy."

Harry hummed, and even though his back was turned, Neville detected a smile on his face.

"Ah yes, the first time you got into a fist fight with me."

"Couldn't just leave you alone, could I?" Neville asked with a grin as he went back to his writing.

Now, this is where I really started doubting my friend's deductive skills. If he was really that great, then he should have known that he couldn't possibly take on both Crabbe and Goyle on his own. Merely the prospect of fighting them, I admit, had me almost petrified with fear, and all I could do was watch as Harry marched up to Malfoy. They spoke to each other, Harry with that same calm and collected look as he always had, while Malfoy's face steadily turned pink with indignation.

Malfoy reached for his wand, but Harry had moved with a speed I didn't know he had, and already had his hand in his robes. He never actually drew his wand, though, and at this point, I was beginning to suspect that he merely wished to prove to me that his theory was correct.

It was.

Malfoy, seeing that Harry was faster than him, took a step back, and Crabbe and Goyle took a step forward. It wasn't until later that I found out just why my friend did not fear those two. He could make split second deductions. By how which muscle tensed, he could deduce what kind of punch came at him, and he did a very, very good job, I admit, fighting those two, while I, regrettably, sat there, petrified.

This is yet another thing I have to thank my friend for. He woke me up. He taught me...

"...not to just sit on the sidelines anymore," Harry read, making Neville jump in shock. He hadn't even noticed that Harry had walked over to him and was reading what he was writing. Feeling his cheeks heating up, Neville immediately put away his quill and rolled up the parchment.

"Oh, don't stop on my account," Harry said, raising his hands in defense. "I was merely curious. I am honored that you value our friendship that much, Neville."

Neville stuffed the parchment into his bag and looked up at Harry, who was looking down at him fondly.

"Well, if it wasn't for you, mate, I'd still be a blubbering mess. I probably would have failed all the classes if it wasn't for you."

"You sell yourself short," Harry said, holding out a hand. Neville took it and allowed Harry to pull him to his feet. "All of this you've done, it was always in you. My presence only brought it out sooner."

"Yeah, by starting a fist fight with the biggest and ugliest Slytherins in Hogwarts," Neville joked with a laugh. Harry laughed as well, though much more softly, as he went back to studying the wall.

"All joking aside, though, it is truly a privilege to have you with me," Harry said, and Neville's eyes widened in surprise. That was a first. Harry glanced back and smiled. "It makes a considerable difference to me, having someone with me on whom I can thoroughly rely. One who isn't afraid of following me into situations that some might consider to be..."

"Suicidal?" Neville suggested lightly, a smirk tugging at his lips.

"I was thinking more along the lines of reckless, but yes," Harry said with a nod. He went silent again as he studied the wall, and Neville just knew that an outrageous suggestion was coming. "Do you think Dumbledore would be too terribly upset if we smashed this wall?"

Neville couldn't help but chuckle.

"Yes, Harry, I think he would be."

Neville smiled at his friend's frustrated expression as he went back to studying the wall. Every weekend now, they had been coming back here. Harry hadn't made any discoveries or anything, yet he insisted on coming back, just to see if there was something he had missed.

"...don't fulfill their requirements... half an inch, if that..."

Neville looked down the corridor along with Harry, to see Nearly Headless Nick, the ghost of Gryffindor, muttering under his breath, staring morosely down at the floor as he floated along.

"Good evening, Sir Nicholas," Harry greeted pleasantly. He was one of the few who addressed Nick the way he wanted to be addressed. Nick, who wore a dashing, plumed hat on his long curly hair, and a tunic with a ruff, which concealed the fact that his neck was almost completely severed, gave a start and looked up so fast that his head nearly fell off. Neville didn't need Harry's observational powers to notice the transparent letter in Nick's hand which the ghost quickly tucked inside his doublet.

"Oh, good evening, Harry," Nick greeted. "Good evening, Neville."

"Evening, Nick," Neville said with a smile. It seemed that Nick didn't mind Neville calling him as such, probably because Neville treated it as short for Nicholas, and not because of his nickname Nearly Headless Nick.

"I must say, you boys look happy this evening," Nick spoke pleasantly. "Had a good day?"

"Exceedingly good," Harry said happily. "I am in the middle of a mystery that has proven itself worthy of my skills. However, I cannot say the same about you, Sir Nicholas."

"Yeah, you look troubled, Nick," Neville said, nodding in agreement. "Does it have anything to do with that letter?"

"Ah," Nick said, waving an elegant hand, "it is a matter of no importance... It's not as though I really wanted to join... Thought I'd apply, but apparently I 'don't fulfill requirements'..."

In spite of his airy tone, Neville could see that Nick looked very bitter about whatever it was. He had probably been rejected by the Headless Hunt again.

"But you would think, wouldn't you," Nick erupted before Neville could speak, pulling the letter back out of his pocket, "that getting hit forty-five times in the neck with a blunt axe would qualify you to join the Headless Hunt?"

"One would think," Harry agreed, wearing an expression that said that he sympathized with Nick. He could wear that expression no matter how small someone's problem was. Being someone who felt miserable whenever he didn't have a mystery to solve, Harry could no doubt sympathize with disappointment and depression.

"I mean, nobody wishes more than I do that it had all been quick and clean, and my head had come off properly, I mean, it would have saved me a great deal of pain and ridicule. However..."

Nick shook his letter open and read furiously:

"'We can only accept huntsmen whose heads have parted company with their bodies. You will appreciate that it would be impossible otherwise for members to participate in hunt activities such as Horseback Head-Juggling and Head Polo. It is with the greatest regret, therefore, that I must inform you that you do not fulfill our requirements. With very best wishes, Sir Patrick Delaney-Podmore.'"

Fuming, Nick stuffed the letter away.

"Half an inch of skin and sinew holding my neck on, boys! Most people would think that's good and beheaded, but oh, no, it's not enough for Sir Properly Decapitated-Podmore."

Nick took several deep breaths, and Harry took this time to put on a soothing, peaceful smile that Neville had only ever seen on Professor Dumbledore before.

"Why would you want to join the Headless Hunt, anyway?" Harry asked curiously. "It sounds to me that they are just a group of childish, arrogant ponces, not at all like you, Sir Nicholas."

Nick and Neville blinked in surprise as they both looked at Harry in surprise.

"I mean, you are, forgive me, Nearly Headless Nick, probably the most unique ghost in existence," Harry continued, still smiling. "I sure don't know of any other ghosts whose head is only connected by half an inch of skin and sinew. If they don't want the world's most unique ghost among them, then that's their loss, isn't it?"

After a few moments of silence following this statement, Nick seemed to puff his chest out slightly, and he smiled down at Harry.

"Thank you, Harry, for cheering me up. I suppose I have at least that to take pride in." He was silent for a moment, appearing deep in thought. "I say, Harry, Neville, would I be asking too much... but no, you wouldn't want..."

"Want what, Nick?" Neville asked interestedly.

"Well, this Halloween will be my five hundredth deathday," Nick said, drawing himself up and looking dignified.

"Congratulations," Harry said, though Neville wasn't really sure whether he should look sorry or happy about it.

"Thank you. Well, I'm holding a party down in one of the roomier dungeons," Nick said. "Friends will be coming from all over the country. It would be such an honor if you two would attend. Miss Granger is, of course, also invited. But I daresay you'd rather go to the school feast?"

"Will there be food?" Neville asked, raising an eyebrow. Nick scratched his head.

"Well, most of it will be moldy and rotten, since we ghosts can pick up the smell and taste much better. So I-"

"Then we'll have to fill up before going," Harry interrupted Nick, staring at Neville, who nodded. Nick had always been very friendly with Harry, and it seemed that Harry had his mind set on going. It would be a pain missing the grand Halloween feast but...

"Yeah, we'll have something to eat first, then we'll come to your party, Nick," Neville said, smiling.

"My word! The infamous duo, at my deathday party!" Nick said, looking excited. "And... do you think you could possibly mention to Sir Patrick how very frightening and impressive you find me?"

"Sorry, Nick," Neville said with a slight chuckle, before pointing at Harry. "Harry would probably only get as far as to mention how impressive you are, before he'd start insulting Sir Patrick."

"I can try, though, Sir Nicholas," Harry said, raising his pipe in a salute.

Nick beamed at him.

I was beaten and bruised, and I could feel my eye slowly swelling shut. Harry's eye was already swollen shut, his nose was bleeding, and his lip was split. He could hardly walk by himself, so I had to sling his arm over my shoulder and help him walk. What truly surprised me, however, was that despite the thorough beating he had taken, which would have been worse had I not managed to shake myself out of my fear, my friend had a big, satisfied smile on his face.

"Why would you do that?" I remember asking.

"Why, to prove myself right, of course," he answered without hesitation.

"You would allow yourself, and me, to get beat up just to prove yourself right?"

We had won the fight, but it still smarted, and if we didn't go to Madame Pomfrey, the following week would have become hell, no doubt. My friend, however, just grinned happily at me.

"Ah, but Neville, my boy, what doesn't kill us makes us stronger," he said with an air of nonchalance that I still cannot understand how he manages. Amusingly, however, he winced with the next step and added, "After it heals, of course."

Neville put away his parchment and smiled at Hermione, who Harry had just told of Nick's deathday party.

"A deathday party?" Hermione asked keenly. "I bet there aren't many living people who can say that they've been to one of those! I bet it'll be fascinating!"

"I don't see why anyone would celebrate the day the died," Neville said, still trying to wrap his mind around that detail, "but I agree, it might be interesting."

Rain was still lashing the windows, which were now inky black. It had been raining for a week now. Filch was more irritable than ever, having gotten a cold as well, and the students were dragging in mud every five minutes. There were times when Neville actually pitied the caretaker.

In the common room, however, all looked bright and cheerful. Harry was in his usual seat, the four top buttons on his shirt undone and his scarf in his lap as he chewed on his pipe. Neville looked over the common room, where people were sitting in the countless squashy armchairs reading, talking, doing homework or, in the case of Fred and George Weasley, trying to find out what would happen if you fed a Filibuster firework to a salamander Fred had 'rescued' the brilliant orange, fire-dwelling lizard from a Care of Magical Creatures class and it was now smoldering gently on a table surrounded by a knot of curious people.

"By the way," Neville said suddenly. "I heard rumors that Professor Kettleburn is retiring after this year."

"Not surprising is it?" Hermione asked with a slight chuckle. "After the fire crab incident last year, I'm surprised he even stayed for this year."

"Well, Madame Pomfrey managed to grow back his face, didn't she?" Harry reasoned with a shrug.

"Barely..."

"In any case, if anyone has deserved to retire from here, it's him. He's been here about as long as Dumbledore, hasn't he?" Neville asked, to which Harry nodded.

By the time Halloween arrived, Neville was almost regretting his decision to go to the deathday party. The rest of the school was happily anticipating their Halloween feast, the Great Hall had been decorated with the usual live bats, Hagrid's vast pumpkins had been carved into lanterns large enough for three men to sit in, and there were rumors that Dumbledore had booked a troupe of dancing skeletons for the entertainment.

"Well, a promise is a promise," Harry said lightly as the trio sat in the common room, eating some very delicious sandwiches that Harry had gotten sent up from Madame Rosmerta down at the Three Broomsticks in Hogsmeade. How he managed to get her to send them to him, Neville didn't know.

So, at seven o'clock, Neville, Harry, and Hermione made their way straight past the doorway to the packed Great Hall, which was glittering invitingly with gold plates and candles, and directed their steps instead toward the dungeons.

The passageway leading to Nick's party had been lined with candles, too, though the effect was far from cheerful: These were long, thin, jet-black tapers, all burning bright blue, casting a dim, ghostly light even over their own living faces. Harry, however, seemed to grow cheerful at the sight of the ominous candles, and didn't seem bothered as the temperature dropped with every step they took.

Neville, wrapping his frock coat tighter around himself, jumped suddenly when he heard what sounded like a thousand fingernails scraping an enormous blackboard.

"That's music?" Neville whispered as they turned a corner and saw Nick standing at a doorway hung with black velvet drapes.

"My dear friends," he said mournfully. "Welcome, welcome... so pleased you could come..."

He swept off his plumed hat and bowed them inside.

It was an incredible sight, Neville had to admit. The dungeon was full of hundreds of pearly-white, translucent people, mostly drifting around a crowded dance floor, waltzing to the dreadful, quavering sound of thirty musical saws, played by an orchestra on a raised, black-draped platform. A chandelier overhead blazed midnight-blue with a thousand more black candles. Their breath rose in a mist before them. It was like stepping into a bloody freezer.

Harry, though, seemed delighted, making small noises of contentment as he looked around, taking a step and then stopping rather suddenly to look at something new.

"Should, uh, should we be careful not to walk through anyone?" Neville asked nervously. In all honesty, he was clueless as to what to do. The music didn't bother him, as he had been around Harry on a bad day, but the atmosphere was, in a word, dreadful. They passed a group of gloomy nuns, a ragged man wearing chains, and the Fat Friar, a cheerful Hufflepuff ghost, who was talking to a knight with an arrow sticking out of his forehead. Neville wasn't surprised to see that the Bloody Baron, a gaunt, staring Slytherin ghost covered in silver bloodstains, was being given a wide berth by the other ghosts.

"Oh, no," Hermione said, stopping abruptly. "Turn back, turn back, I don't want to talk to Moaning Myrtle..."

Neville knew why. Although he had never met her, Moaning Myrtle was infamous in Hogwarts, haunting one of the toilets in the girls' bathroom on the second floor. She seemed to think that everyone hated her, from what Hermione had told him, and apparently thought that every compliment given her was a big lie.

"Come to think of it, her toilet is out-of-order, isn't it?" Neville asked, raising an eyebrow, to which Hermione nodded.

"Yes, because she keeps having tantrums and flooding the place. I never went in there anyway if I could avoid it. It's awful trying to have a pee with her wailing at you..."

"Oh, come now, Hermione," Harry said rather suddenly. "You're being rude. I am certain she merely has some self-esteem issues. She's probably a kind girl."

"Well, whether she's a kind girl or not," Neville said, interrupting Hermione before she could speak, "I'm glad we decided to eat before we came here."

On the other side of the dungeon was a long table, also covered in black velvet. They approached it cautiously, and were not surprised at what they found. The smell was quite disgusting. Large, rotten fish were laid on handsome silver platters, cakes, burned charcoal-black, were heaped on salvers, there was a great maggoty haggis, a slab of cheese covered in furry green mold and, in pride of place, an enormous gray cake in the shape of a tombstone, with tar-like icing forming the words,

Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington

Died 31st October, 1495

Neville watched, amazed, as a portly ghost approached the table, crouched low, and walked through it, his mouth held wide so that it passed through one of the stinking salmon.

"Pardon me, sir," Harry spoke curiously, his eyes almost shining with interest. "Can you actually taste it if you walk through it?"

"Almost," the ghost said sadly, and then drifted away without another word.

Neville watched in disgust as Harry picked up a piece of the stinky salmon and put it in his mouth. Next to him, Hermione made a noise of disgust, and almost immediately, Harry spat out the salmon.

"He's lucky he can't taste it," Harry commented as he reached into his pocket, taking out a handkerchief and wiping his mouth.

"That was disgusting, you know that?" Hermione asked, her nose scrunched up.

"Of course I do. I'm the one who tasted it," Harry said, putting away his handkerchief and taking out his pipe and lighting it with his wand. "Well, now I know why they let it rot," he said, and without waiting for them to ask, he answered, "Even a ghost should be able to taste that..."

"Well, can we move?" Neville asked, swallowing the bile he felt rising up in his throat. "I feel sick..."

They had barely turned around, however, when a little man suddenly swooped up from under the table and came to a halt in midair before them.

"Good evening, Peeves," Harry said pleasantly.

Unlike the ghosts around them, Peeves the Poltergeist was the very reverse of pale and transparent. He was wearing a bright orange party hat, a revolving bow tie, and a broad grin on his wide, wicked face.

"Nibbles?" he asked sweetly, offering them a bowl of peanuts covered in fungus.

"No thanks..." Hermione muttered.

"Heard you talking about poor Myrtle," Peeves said, his eyes dancing. "Rude you was about poor Myrtle." He took a deep breath and bellowed, "OY! MYRTLE!"

"Oh, no, Peeves, don't tell her what I said, she'll be really upset," Hermione whispered frantically. "I didn't mean it, I don't mind her- er, hello, Myrtle."

The squat ghost of a girl had glided over. She had the glummest face Harry had ever seen, half-hidden behind lank hair and thick, pearly spectacles.

"What?" she asked sulkily.

"How are you, Myrtle?" Hermione asked in a falsely bright voice. "It's nice to see you out of the toilet."

Myrtle sniffed.

"Miss Granger was just talking about you," Peeves said slyly into Myrtle's ear.

"Just saying... saying... how nice you look tonight," Hermione said, glaring at Peeves.

"You are a horrible liar, Hermione," Harry said calmly as Myrtle eyes Hermione suspiciously. "Harry Potter," he added, giving Myrtle a bow of his head. "Nice to meet you, Myrtle."

"Neville Longbottom," Neville felt a need to introduce himself as well.

"You're making fun of me," Myrtle said, silver tears welling rapidly in her small, see-through eyes. "Nice to meet me? Don't lie..." she muttered, tears now flooding down her face, while Peeves chuckled happily over her shoulder. "D'you think I don't know what people call me behind my back? Fat Myrtle! Ugly Myrtle! Miserable, moping Myrtle!"

"You've forgotten pimply," Peeves hissed in her ear.

Myrtle suddenly burst into anguished sobs and fled from the dungeon. Peeves shot after her, pelting her with moldy peanuts, yelling, "Pimply! Pimply!"

Harry blinked in some sort of polite befuddlement, then commented, "Cheerful lass..."

Nick came drifting over to them through the crowd, having apparently not seen Myrtle, or maybe he was so used to her by now that he had just ignored it?

"Enjoying yourselves?"

"Thoroughly," Harry said happily, while Neville just settled for nodding in agreement along with Hermione. "I have never seen a ghost party before."

"Not a bad turnout, either," Nick said proudly. "The Wailing Widow came all the way up from Kent... It's nearly time for my speech, so I better go warn the orchestra..."

The orchestra, however, stopped playing at that very moment. They, and everyone else in the dungeon, fell silent, looking around in excitement, as a hunting horn sounds.

"Oh, here we go," Nick said bitterly.

Through the dungeon wall burst a dozen ghost horses, each ridden by a headless horseman. The assembly clapped wildly. Neville felt tempted to do the same, but stopped when he saw Harry's disapproving face. Harry jerked his head toward Nick, who looked like he would have been less than pleased had Neville started clapping.

The horses galloped into the middle of the dance floor and halted, rearing and plunging. At the front of the pack was a large ghost who held his bearded head under his arm, from which position he was blowing the horn. The ghost leapt down, lifted his head high in the air so that he could see over the crowd, eliciting laughs from everyone, and strode over to Nick, squashing his head back onto his neck.

"Nick!" he roared. "How are you? Head still hanging in there?"

He gave a hearty guffaw and clapped Nick on the shoulder.

"Welcome, Patrick," Nick said stiffly.

"Live 'uns!" Sir Patrick said, spotting Neville, Harry, and Hermione and giving a huge, fake jump of astonishment, so that his head fell off again, which caused the crowd to howl with laughter.

"Very amusing," Nick said darkly.

"Don't mind Nick!" Sir Patrick shouted from the floor. "Still upset we won't let him join the Hunt! But I mean to say... look at the fellow..."

"I must say, sir, you should be glad that you are dead," Harry said, not a trace of amusement on his face. "For if you were solid, I would have kicked your head out the window. Not only are you barging in here making too much noise to endure, but you are also insulting the host of the party. You, sir, are filth, in my opinion, and I hope I will never see your face again, wherever it may roll off."

Neville had to cough to hide a laugh when Harry spat down at Sir Patrick's head. It passed right through him and spattered against the floor, but the message was clear.

"Frankly, I prefer a ghost with manners and his head connected by half an inch of sinew over a centuries-old ghost who runs around acting as if he was five. Act your age."

All amusement disappeared from Sir Patrick's face. His eyes went to Neville, who schooled his features into a cold look that he hoped matched the one Harry had. Looking to Hermione to meet the same reaction, Sir Patrick's face twitched angrily.

"Why, I've never!" he harrumphed as his body picked up his head, and he wandered off.

"I'm sorry, Sir Nicholas," Harry said, turning to Nick with a sad look, "but as long as that buffoon is here, I cannot stay here. I hope you understand?"

"Certainly, Harry," Nick said with a nod. "Was it not my party, I would have left as well. Off you go, children."

Harry gave a deep bow to Nick and then turned and walked away. Neville and Hermione, not wanting to be left behind, said their goodbyes to Nick and then followed.

"That was awfully rude of them, wasn't it?" Neville asked as they walked, and Harry nodded, looking less than pleased.

"I am glad those ghosts do not haunt this castle. Had they done that, I would have switched school years ago."

Neville smiled. Harry was very peculiar. Certain personality traits that others would frown upon, Harry had nothing against, but childish playing around was something Harry didn't like. He didn't mind the Weasley twins, as they only did wide-spread pranks, but interrupting and insulting the host of a party, that was definitely something Harry didn't approve of, and Neville had to agree.

"With any luck, we might be able to join the feast," Hermione said with a smile, obviously trying to change the subject. "There may be some food left."

Neville nodded in agreement as they headed toward the steps to the entrance hall.

Then, Harry stopped suddenly, perking up.

"There it is," he said, a triumphant look on his face. "The voice!"

Neville blinked in confusion. He didn't hear anything. He looked at Hermione, who shrugged. Meanwhile, Harry was looking left and right, probably listening for which wall the voice came from.

"I don't hear anything," Neville said, but Harry ignored him, his eyes slowly moving up to the dark ceiling.

"This way," he said suddenly and began to run, up the stairs, into the entrance hall, with Neville and Hermione following. Neville was sure Harry couldn't possibly hear anything there, as the babble of talk from the Halloween feast was echoing out of the Great Hall. Without a word, Harry sprinted up the marble staircase to the first floor, Neville and Hermione clattering behind him.

"Harry, what are we-" Hermione panted, but Harry hushed her sharply.

Neville strained his ears, hearing nothing. How sharp were Harry's ears, he wondered to be able to hear something that neither Neville nor Hermione could hear? Or was he just imagining it? Without a word, Harry sprinted off again, and Neville followed.

"It's going to kill someone," Harry said urgently as they ran up the next flight of steps, three at a time.

They hurtled around the whole of the second floor, Neville panting just as heavily as Harry, though Hermione looked the worst by far, holding a stitch in her side. They didn't stop until they turned a corner into the last, deserted passage.

"Harry, what is this? I don't hear a thing," Neville said, taking off his hat and wiping sweat off his face with a handkerchief.

But Harry grunted, and Hermione gave a sudden gasp, pointing down the corridor.

"Look!" she said.

Something was shining on the wall ahead. They approached slowly, squinting through the darkness. Foot-high words had been daubed on the wall between two windows, shimmering in the light cast by the flaming torches.

THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS HAS BEEN

OPENED. ENEMIES OF THE HEIR, BEWARE.

"What's that, hanging underneath?" Neville asked nervously as they edged nearer. There was a large puddle of water on the floor, so they took care not to slip as they inched toward the message, eyes fixed on a dark shadow beneath it. All three of them realized what it was at once, and leapt back with a splash.

Mrs. Norris, the caretaker's cat, was hanging by her tail from the torch bracket. She was stiff as a board, her eyes wide and staring.

For a few seconds, Neville stood unmoving. Then, he looked to Harry, to see his friend looking around everywhere, his eyes taking in every detail.

"Hey, Harry, why don't we leave for now?" Neville asked. It wouldn't be good to be found by someone like this.

But it was too late. A rumble, as though of distant thunder, told them that the feast had just ended. From either end of the corridor where they stood came the sound of hundreds of feet climbing the stairs, and the loud, happy talk of well-fed people. The next moment, people were crashing into the passage from both ends.

The chatter, the bustle, the noise died suddenly as the people in front spotted the hanging cat. Neville, Harry, and Hermione stood alone, in the middle of the corridor, as silence fell among the mass of students pressing forward to see the grisly sight.

"Harry, this isn't..." Neville started, but stopped when he saw that Harry hadn't noticed the crowd. He was on his knees in the puddle of water, looking over the scene. Then, someone shouted through the quiet.

"Enemies of the Heir, beware! You'll be next, Mudbloods!"

It was Draco Malfoy. He had pushed to the front of the crowd, his cold eyes alive, his usually bloodless face flushed, as he grinned at the sight of the hanging, immobile cat.


	6. Chapter 6

"What's going on here? What's going on?"

Attracted no doubt by Malfoy's shout, Argus Filch came shouldering his way through the crowd, but Harry paid him no mind. His only focus was on the crime scene. There truly was nothing quite like a good mystery. The water had been there long before the Halloween feast started, so before the crime took place, but there were no wet footsteps leading away from the scene. In order for the criminal to have been able to hang up Mrs. Norris and write the message, they would have had to-

"You!" Filch's screech interrupted Harry's chain of thoughts. "You've murdered my cat! You've killed her!" the old caretaker roared at Harry, approaching him quickly with his hands raised in an attempt to strangle Harry. "I'll kill you! I'll-"

Harry allowed him to get no further, shooting to his feet and lashing out, chopping Filch over his throat to stop his charge. Then, a left uppercut to the solar plexus, thoroughly taking the breath out of him, and finally, to prevent him from getting up anytime soon, he gave Filch a powerful punch to the liver, dropping the old caretaker to his knees.

Filch gagged and coughed in pain, but he deserved it in Harry's opinion, interrupting his musings like that. Now, where was he? Oh, right, the water on the floor. With no wet footprints, the only logical conclusion was that the culprit had entered the bathroom that the water was coming from.

"Stay down," Harry told Filch simply as he moved toward the bathroom, pushing the door open. It was the gloomiest, most depressing bathroom Harry had ever set foot in. Under the large, cracked, and spotted mirror were a row of chipped sinks. The floor in there was also flooded and reflected the dull light given off by the stubs of a few candles, burning low in their holders. The wooden doors to the stalls were flaking and scratched and one of them was dangling off its hinges. This was, if Harry remembered correctly, the second floor bathroom that Myrtle liked to haunt.

"Argus!" he heard a voice from outside the bathroom. Dumbledore must have arrived on the scene. Harry didn't listen to what went on outside, however, and instead looked through the bathroom, checking under the door of each stall to see if someone was in there. Whoever it was, they must have simply... vanished... With all the water on the floor, it was impossible to make out any...

"Wait..." Harry muttered as he made his way over to the chipped sinks. There was traces of mud mixed with the water... He knelt, ignoring the fact that his pants were getting soaked, and leaned closer to the mud.

"Mr. Potter," came the Headmaster's voice from the door to the bathroom. "I am sorry to interrupt you, but I need you to come with me."

Harry just grunted as he rose to his feet, digging his hand into his pocket and taking out his pipe, putting it in his mouth and chewing on it. Turning around, he walked over to Dumbledore, and together they left the bathroom.

Lockhart, who had appeared along with the rest of the faculty, stepped forward eagerly.

"My office is nearest, Headmaster, just upstairs, please feel free..."

"Thank you, Gilderoy," Dumbledore said with a nod. "Well then, Argus, Mr. Potter, Mr. Longbottom, Miss Granger.."

The silent crowd parted to let them pass. Lockhart, looking excited and important, hurried after Dumbledore, and so did Professors McGonagall and Snape.

As they entered Lockhart's darkened office, there was a flurry of movement across the walls. Harry saw that it was filled with pictures of Lockhart himself, and they were all dodging out of sight, their hair in rollers. The real Lockhart lit the candles on his desk and stood back. Dumbledore laid Mrs. Norris on the polished surface and began to examine her. Harry did his own examination, though whereas Dumbledore's investigation consisted of scrutinizing and prodding with his wand and fingers, Harry merely stared at the cat. She wasn't dead, he knew that much. Rigor mortis didn't kick in that quickly, after all. She was most likely Petrified, though not by a simple Petrificus Totalus.

Professor McGonagall was bent almost as close as Dumbledore, her eyes narrowed. Snape loomed behind them, half in shadow, wearing a most peculiar expression. It was as though he was trying hard not to smile. And Lockhart was hovering all around them, making suggestions.

"It was definitely a curse that killed her, probably the Transmogrifian Torture, I've seen it used many times, so unlucky I wasn't there, I know the very countercurse that would have saved her..."

Lockhart's comments were punctuated by Filch's dry, racking sobs. He was slumped in a chair by the desk, unable to look at Mrs. Norris, his face in his hands. Harry would have felt sorry for him, had the man not earlier tried to kill Harry.

"...I remember something very similar happening in Ouagadogou," Lockhart said, "a series of attacks, the full story's in my autobiography, I was able to provide the townsfolk with various amulets, which cleared the matter up at once..."

The photographs of Lockhart on the walls were all nodding in agreement as he talked. One of them had forgotten to remove his hair net.

At last, Dumbledore straightened up.

"She is not dead, Argus," he said softly.

Lockhart stopped abruptly in the middle of counting the number of murders he had prevented.

"Not dead?" Filch choked, looking through his fingers at Mrs. Norris. His voice was still a bit hoarse after the blow to the throat Harry had given him. "But why's she all... all stiff and frozen?"

"She has been Petrified," Dumbledore said ("Ah! I thought so!" Lockhart said). "But how, I cannot say..."

"Ask him!" Filch shrieked, turning his blotched and tear-stained face to Harry.

"Harry could not possibly have done this," Dumbledore said firmly. "It would take Dark Magic of the most advanced-"

"He did it, he did it!" Filch spat, his face purpling. "You saw how he attacked me when I called him on it! Could've killed me!"

"It was self-defense," Harry said, glaring at Filch. "You were coming at me with the intention of strangling me when I was investigating the crime scene. I merely stopped you. I never touched Mrs. Norris."

"If I might speak, Headmaster," Snape said from the shadows, and Harry had to suppress a sigh. Nothing Snape had to say was going to be good. "Potter and his friends may have simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time," he said, a slight sneer curling his mouth as though he doubted it. "But we do have a set of suspicious circumstances here. Why was he in the upstairs corridor at all? What wasn't he at the Halloween feast?"

"You know, it's incredibly rude to talk about someone in third person when you're looking right at him," Harry said through gritted teeth. "As for why we were not at the feast, we just came from Sir Nicholas' five hundredth deathday party. There were hundreds of ghosts there, and they can tell you we were there. We would still be there, but I found myself offended by Sir Patrick the Headless Ponce, so we left."

"But why not join the feast afterward?" Snape asked, his black eyes glittering in the candlelight. So, this was the game he wanted to play, eh? "Why go up that corridor?"

"Because we were tired and wanted to go to bed," Harry lied quickly and easily. Telling them that a voice only he seemed to be able to hear had led them there would not be good. Dumbledore was probably the only one who would believe him.

"Without any supper?" Snape asked, a triumphant smile flickering across his gaunt face. "I didn't think ghosts provided food fit for living people at their parties?"

"We ate before we went," Neville spoke up suddenly. "Harry seemed to figure that out himself, and had owled Madame Rosmerta to send up some sandwiches."

"You know, those delicious turkey sandwiches?" Harry asked, turning toward Dumbledore, whose eyes had lit up at the mention of the sandwiches.

"Ah yes, those are quite delicious," Dumbledore agreed, nodding.

Harry was very pleased to see the nasty smile disappearing from Snape's face. Dumbledore, however, was giving Harry a searching look. His twinkling, light-blue gaze made Harry feel as though he was being X-rayed, no doubt using Legilimency. Harry just gave a kind smile and put up his Occlumency shield, being very well-versed in the art, a polite way of telling Dumbledore that he wasn't allowed to look.

Dumbledore didn't seem offended, and instead said, "Innocent until proven guilty, Severus."

Snape looked furious, and so did Filch.

"My cat has been Petrified!" he shrieked, his eyes popping. "I want to see some punishment!"

"We will be able to cure her, Argus," Dumbledore said patiently. "Professor Sprout recently managed to procure some Mandrakes. As soon as they have reached their full size- I will have a potion made that will revive Mrs. Norris."

"I'll make it," Lockhart butted in. "I must have done it a hundred times. I could whip up a Mandrake Restorative Draught in my sleep-"

"Excuse me," Snape interrupted icily. "But I believe I am the Potions master at this school."

There was a very awkward pause.

"You may go," Dumbledore told Harry, Neville, and Hermione.

"Professor, do I have permission to look over the scene?" Harry asked, to which Dumbledore immediately nodded.

"Of course, if you believe that you may find some clues, then you are certainly allowed to investigate."

"Thank you, Professor," Harry said, nodding.

"Headmaster, I must object," Snape said, his cold eyes glaring at Harry. "What could this child possibly be able to do to help in the investigation? It should be up to the faculty to find and apprehend the culprit before he can act again."

"Oh, I imagine I would be of no help whatsoever if great minds such as yourself are working on it," Harry said, making sure to lay on the sarcasm nice and thick as he watched the hatred showing more and more on Snape's face. "But it doesn't hurt to take a look, does it? Come, Neville, Hermione."

Humming happily, Harry left the office with his friends. Once he was outside, however, he immediately poked his head back inside, staring straight into Snape's eyes.

"Oh, and by the way, Professor, the culprit is a woman," he said with a wink. "Good luck with that."

Neville couldn't help but gape in astonishment as he followed his friend back to the crime scene. Hermione had bid them both goodnight and headed back to the Gryffindor Tower.

"How on earth could you tell that it was a woman?"

"Very simple, my dear Neville," Harry said, looking pleased as they reached the scene. The floor was still wet, but Harry didn't seem to care as he walked straight up to the message on the wall. He raised his hand and pointed to the T in the first word of the message.

"Observe, please, that two fingers were used during the writing, and as can easily be seen are very slim, petite, feminine. She put down the vertical line first, before the horizontal line, as her thumb has clearly been dragged through the paint when she made the horizontal line. With that, it becomes even more obvious that it was a woman, as you can see where her long thumb nail has been dragged through the paint as well. That, coupled with her height, leaves me to conclude that it was a woman."

"Height?"

Harry smiled at Neville and pointed at the message again.

"When a person writes on a wall, they instinctively write just above eye level," Harry said. "The first line was written about one hundred and seventy centimeters above the floor, which puts her height at between one hundred and sixty, and one hundred and sixty-five centimeters."

"You never cease to amaze me," Neville said with a chuckle, watching Harry lighting his pipe and puffing on it. "I see a message on the wall, you see hundreds of tiny details inside a message on the wall."

"You see, I observe," Harry said with a nod.

"A trait I have yet to use instinctively," Neville said, smiling. "I mean, after you point out the details, they are easy to see, which leaves me feeling rather lacking."

Somewhere, a clock chimed suddenly, and Neville blinked.

"Good lord, midnight already?"

"Time does fly, doesn't it?" Harry asked with a smile. "You should get to bed, Neville. I will be staying here for a while longer."

Neville nodded and bade goodnight to his friend, before walking off. Honestly, it wouldn't have surprised him if he woke the next day and found Harry still there.

Making his way toward Gryffindor Tower, Neville stuffed his hands into his pockets and thought about his friendship with Harry. He must've looked like an adoring fan at times, but he just couldn't help it. He was truly amazed by Harry's mind, and his physical abilities. Although he looked rather scrawny, Harry was, in fact, rather fit and could hold his own in a fist fight. In fact, oftentimes he picked fights with Malfoy just so that he'd get to fight Crabbe and Goyle, fights that he usually dragged Neville into.

Not that he minded, of course. Neville had to admit, Harry had been right. What didn't kill him only made him stronger, and he was quite an able fighter, so should he ever lose his wand in a duel, he wouldn't be completely helpless. That was more than most wizards could say.

It was amusing, too, as Harry and Neville never lost the fights anymore. Sure, they took beatings, but they were never the ones who lost, not after their fourth year started. Neville, like Harry, had started observing his opponents, and he found that it helped him greatly. For example, whenever Crabbe was going to throw a straight right, his right shoulder twitched back ever so slightly, so Neville could move in before he even managed to cock his arm back.

Anyway, the voice was rather disturbing, that voice that only Harry could hear. Either that, or his ears were just much better than Neville's, because Neville couldn't hear a thing, and he was sure Hermione hadn't heard it, either... If they hadn't been led to that message, then Neville would have believed that Harry had just been imagining it.

For a few days, the school could talk of little else but the attack on Mrs. Norris. Filch kept it fresh in everyone's mind by pacing the spot where she had been attacked, as though he thought the attacker might come back. Neville had seen him scrubbing the message on the wall with Mrs. Skower's All-Purpose Magical Mess Remover, but to no effect. The words still gleamed as brightly as ever on the stone. When Filch wasn't guarding the scene of the crime, he was skulking red-eyed through the corridors, lunging out at unsuspecting students and trying to put them in detention for things like 'breathing loudly,' and 'looking happy.' This was very annoying for Neville, adding to his list of bothers, on top of homework, studying for the OWLs, working on his book, and following Harry out on late night strolls. Granted, those last two were voluntary, but still...

"I hear Ginny Weasley is pretty bloody torn up about Mrs. Norris's attack," Neville commented a few days after the attack. He and Harry were sitting in their usual armchairs, Harry smoking his pipe and reading the Prophet, while Neville kept working on his book.

Harry gave a noncommittal grunt as he flipped a page in his newspaper, which made Neville look up. Harry only made those noises when he had come up with something. He had been silent these last few days, after coming back from their latest investigation.

"What's wrong?" Neville asked. Apparently, Harry had been waiting for that question, as he all to quickly folded his newspaper and put it down, leaning against the armrest of his chair to lean closer to Neville.

"What's wrong? I'll tell you what's wrong: This case is becoming easier and easier. I thought it was going to be this great mystery, but it's nothing different from a case of a stolen wallet..."

Neville blinked in confusion as Harry leaned back in his chair, unfolding his paper and going back to reading.

"I'm confused now," Neville said. "How is a stolen wallet similar to this?"

"Well, when you know who the culprit is, and the motive, then the only thing remaining is to find the wallet. In this case, I merely have to find the 'wallet,' so to speak."

Neville slowly nodded in understanding and went back to his writing.

It was a magnificent mirror, I had to admit. It was as high as the ceiling, with an ornate gold frame, standing on two clawed feet. There was an inscription carved around the top: Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi. Although it was a magnificent mirror, I was unsure why my friend brought me here. He was giving me this sad smile of understanding and pointed at the mirror. I looked into it, and saw only myself and Harry standing there, alone in the dark.

"What was it that you wanted me to see?" I asked him in confusion. It was just a mirror, after all.

"Oh, many apologies, Neville," Harry told me, seeming to realize something. He took me by the shoulders and moved aside, allowing me to take the spot he had been standing in. Now, I had to clap a hand to my mouth to stop my yell of surprise. I whirled around, my heart pounding furiously in my chest, for I had seen not only myself in that mirror. I had seen two people behind me, my mother and father, healthy, smiling proudly at me.

I could feel the hairs in the back of my neck rising as I looked back at the mirror and saw the faces of my parents, so much different from the way they had looked every time I visited them in St. Mungo's.

"What is this magic?" I heard myself whisper and felt a hand on my shoulder. I looked to Harry, who was pointing up at the inscription on the mirror, only he was pointing at the end of the inscription, apparently reading it backwards.

"'I show not your face but your hearts desire,'" he read out loud to me, then smiled sadly. "I felt that you may wish to see them again, because I am guessing you are seeing your parents, happy and healthy?"

I could only nod in silence.

"I brought you here so you could see it only once," Harry told me as he started leading me out of the room. I almost resisted. I wanted to see them again... "That mirror, I feel, would bring you more suffering than anything in the real world ever could."

Those words stuck to me. My friend was wise beyond his years, but there was something in his voice that truly shook me. I never visited that mirror again, but I still feel the desire to see it once more. My friend must have known this. He must have felt the same temptation as I did.

"What did you see?" I asked him as we left the room.

I was only given a smile.

"That's the end of that chapter," Neville said with a sigh of relief. This book was progressing much faster than he had expected. He never did like writing too much. Foot-long essays were murder on him, but writing about himself, and, more importantly, his friend, has lit a fire under him, and had him working on it almost every day. Now, he just-

"Wait a minute!" Neville said suddenly as something suddenly came to him. "You know who did it?"

"It was obvious," Harry said in disappointment from behind his newspaper. "In truth, the only thing I am interested in now is what she is using to attack people."

"And you aren't planning on telling me who it is?"

"I will leave deducing that to you," Harry said calmly. "The motive, however, was easy to figure out. Malfoy Senior must have known of what was going to happen this year, and of course he would tell his son, so when he said 'You'll be next, Mudbloods,' when Mrs. Norris was discovered, it was all too obvious that the motive is the death of the Muggle-borns in the school."

There was silence for a while as Neville tried to figure out just who it was, what it was that Harry had seen that he'd missed... Giving up on it after a few minutes, Neville went back to his writing.

"Alright, chapter fifteen."

"Already up to fifteen?" Harry asked from behind his paper, and Neville gave a grunt. "Bravo, Neville. Where are you at in your little story?"

"I just finished chapter fourteen with our visit to that mirror," Neville explained, and he could hear that the mirror had affected Harry just as much as it had him. Harry had frozen for a second, then relaxed and kept reading.

"Ah, yes, the Mirror of Erised," he said lightly. "Curious thing, that."

"How did you find out its name?" Neville asked, blinking as he looked over to his friend, whose face was still hidden behind the Prophet.

"Dumbledore told me. You'll see in my notes," Harry said calmly, then made an interested sound. "Will you look at that, the Falmouth Falcons lost to the Caerphilly Catapults," he read and held out a hand.

Neville groaned and reached into his pocket, fishing out two Galleons and handing them over to Harry, who gave a delighted hum. Neville knew it was stupid to bet against his friend again and again, but he clung to the hope that maybe, someday, Harry may predict the outcome of a match wrong.

"And the Cannons lost again, I suppose?" Neville asked. He didn't need to read the newspaper to know that. The Chudley Cannons always lost.

"Naturally. They went up against the Ballycastle Bats, after all."

"But wasn't Connor injured, and they had to use that pathetic Reserve Chaser, what's-his-name...?"

"Hennessy, yes," Harry said, scoffing. "I honestly can't see why they recruited him."

"But at least they won."

"They went up against the Cannons," Harry said as he gave Neville a look that seemed as though he was starting to doubt Neville's level of intelligence. "Even if they didn't have a Seeker, and only had a single, blind Chaser, they still would have won."

"Wow, not really a fan of the Cannons this year, huh?" Neville asked with a chuckle. Harry had never been a great Quidditch fan, but he did keep an eye on the different matches and league standings for reasons unknown to Neville. He had never liked the Chudley Cannons, but he had never talked about them like this before. "What gives?"

Harry just gave another noncommittal grunt, which signaled the end of the conversation, from what Neville could deduce.

The portrait hole opened, and a tired-looking Hermione entered the common room. Neville had taken to using her for deduction practice these days. Whenever she'd enter the common room, Neville would take a good look at her, and try to deduce what she had been doing.

She had a look of frustration on her face that she always showed when something she had heard or read about was lacking in written fact, so she had probably been at the library, looking through books for some time, judging by the fact that she still had her school bag, even though the school day ended several hours ago, and the look on her face told him that she hadn't found what she was looking for.

"Well?" Harry asked without looking out from behind his newspaper when Hermione plopped down into her usual armchair.

"Well what?" Hermione asked, and Neville smiled.

"He was talking to me. The frustrated look on her face tells me that she hasn't learned what she wants to learn, and by the fact that she still has her bag, she has been away for hours, and the only place she'd go without leaving her bag in the common room is the library," Neville said, still looking Hermione over. "Even though she was there so long, she didn't find what she was looking for, which, again, I can tell by the look on her face, and she was looking for information on the Chamber of Secrets."

Hermione blinked and gave Neville a surprised look, which made him puff out his chest slightly in pride. He had to admit, he had progressed. Neville looked to Harry, who finally folded his newspaper and set it down in his lap, looking at Neville.

"Very good, Neville. Very basic, and easily deduced through the fact that you know her, but very good indeed," he praised, and Neville beamed.

"But how did you know that I was looking for information on the Chamber of Secrets?" Hermione asked, and Neville shrugged.

"That's what all the students are looking for."

"And Hogwarts, A History, won't tell you anything about it, either," Harry commented lightly. "You should know that it's not put down in that book as anything but a legend."

"But legends always have basis in fact, Harry, you know that," Hermione countered quickly.

"I'm not saying that it doesn't exist," Harry defended. "I'm merely stating that the book claims that it is a legend and nothing but."

"And why would you need the book, anyway?" Neville asked with a laugh as he gestured for Harry. "This guy is probably the only one in the world who can memorize books better than you."

"Books that matter, at least," Harry said with surprising modesty.

"Well then, what does the legend say?" Hermione asked. Harry sighed and tapped his pipe against his usual 'ashtray,' an old tea cup that had stood on the table besides his tobacco case ever since first year, and emptied it into it. Seeing as no one had moved it, Harry had claimed it as his ashtray this year, apparently.

"Well," Harry started as he started stuffing his pipe with new tobacco, "a few years after Hogwarts was built, far from prying Muggle eyes, what with all the fear and persecution witches and wizards faced, the founders worked fine together, no fighting amongst themselves or anything as they taught the few students they had found. Then disagreements sprang up between them. A rift began to grow between Slytherin and the others. You know, of course, how Slytherin wanted to be more selective about the students," he said with disgust evident in his voice as he lit his pipe and puffed on it a few times.

Neville wished that Binns had the same passion in his history lessons. Harry had this tone that made Neville pay attention to every word.

"Slytherin wanted only students with pure blood, thinking that Muggle-borns were untrustworthy. After a while, there was a serious argument between Gyffindor and Slytherin, which I have come to assume led to a duel, because at the end of it, which I assume Gryffindor won, Slytherin left the school," Harry continued. "This is where the facts become blurred, and the legend of the Chamber of Secrets has been spawned. The story goes that Slytherin had built a hidden chamber in the castle, of which the other founders knew nothing."

"But wait, that's ridiculous," Neville interrupted, already doubting the legend. "How can he build something in the castle without the other founders ever finding out about it?"

Harry shrugged.

"Anyway, Slytherin, according to the legend, sealed the Chamber of Secrets so that no one would be able to open it until his own true heir arrived at the school. The heir alone would be able to unseal the Chamber of Secrets, unleash the horror within, and use it to purge the school of all who were unworthy to study magic."

There was silence as Harry finished, puffing on his pipe, looking thoughtful, as did Hermione. Then, Neville snorted.

"The 'horror within?'" he asked doubtfully. "What's that?"

Harry shrugged again.

"Probably a monster, or something. Well, that's what the legend says. It's apparently something only the Heir of Slytherin can control."

"But you don't believe in this, right?" Neville asked.

"There is no evidence that shows that the Chamber exists," Harry agreed. Before Neville could speak, he added, "Nor has anyone ever presented any evidence that it doesn't exist, either."

"Oh, come on," Neville said, scoffing. There was no way a Chamber of Secrets existed. "Headmasters must have searched for it ever since the legend came about, and if Dumbledore can't find it..." He left that statement hanging. He didn't know why he said it with such emphasis on the fact that Dumbledore couldn't find it. Maybe he wanted Harry to see it as a challenge?

Whether Harry took it as a challenge or not, Neville couldn't tell, as his friend merely leaned back in his chair and kept puffing on his pipe.

"In any case," Hermione said, sighing heavily, "we have a lot of homework to get through this weekend."

Neville's eyes widened in surprise. He had completely forgotten about that!

"Bloody hell!" he exclaimed as he sat up straighter. "I have to finish my Potions essay!"

"You know," Neville heard Harry mutter, probably to himself, "regardless..." Neville strained his ears, but from there, all he heard was mumbling. Harry had retreated into his own little world now, and nothing Neville or Hermione said or did could bring him out of it. Maybe he did believe that the Chamber of Secrets really existed?

It was possible, Neville thought as he rose from his armchair and headed for the stairs leading to the dormitories. After all, the message said that the Chamber was opened, and no matter how powerful a wizard was, there was no way for them to find and open it unless they were the heir of Slytherin...

"Bah," Neville scoffed to himself and shook his head. "I should be focusing on Potions, not legendary hidden chambers..."


	7. Chapter 7

Five feet – Female – Red hair – Weasley – Mrs. Norris – Mud – Rat feces – Filch – Squib – Muggle-born – Slytherin – Chamber of Secrets – Heir – Slytherin – Motive, what's the motive? – How? – Where? – Who? – Unlikely...

Harry's eyes snapped open to look over the Forbidden Forest. He was standing by the window in his dormitory, with one arm resting against the wall by the window, and one hand in his pocket. Judging by how the sun was setting, he had been there for a few hours, at least.

This case was bothering him. Evidence pointed toward Miss Ginny Weasley, the fourth-year girl who seemed to have a crush on him. Her height matched the culprit's, the same finger size, and she also had the same length of hair as the culprit as well, judging by the comparisons he had made with the hair he found in Myrtle's bathroom, and the hair he had found by his tobacco box. However, she had no blood relation to Slytherin, nor had she any motive to go around claiming to be the Heir of Slytherin... Not to mention, her shock at the news of Mrs. Norris' Petrification was genuine, there was no doubt about that. She seemed a bit fearful, as well...

Looked pale... Shut-in... Quiet... She knew something about the incident, or believed that she knew something about it. Harry was sure she was involved, and he knew she was the culprit, so why didn't she behave like the culprit? Why did she act like she knew next to nothing about it. She had a look of suspicion and fear on her face when she was informed of what had happened...

Screwing his eyes shut, Harry struck a match against the wall and lit his pipe, which he had had in his mouth, unlit, for the last few hours. He'd learned his lesson. The last time he slipped into one of his thoughtful states of trance, he had had his pipe lit, and it had dropped from his mouth, burning the carpet and almost setting the whole dorm on fire.

"I need to stop thinking about this," Harry muttered to himself, puffing on his pipe. He didn't have enough data, and it would have been most unwise to theorize before he had enough of that. Blinking slowly, he looked around for something to occupy his mind with.

There was a long piece of parchment on Neville's bedside table, with, from what Harry could see from his position by the window, was labeled chapter fifteen. He had already finished it in just a day?

Now, Harry wasn't usually one to read people's books, essays, and such, without permission, but seeing as Neville's book was about Harry himself, Harry felt that he was allowed to read some of it, so with a shrug, he moved over and picked up the parchment.

"Chapter fifteen..." he muttered to himself, reading it.

Many times my friend had sat by the window in our dormitory, just staring out the window, thinking hard about something or other. He has never told me what he thinks about during those periods, and I doubt I would understand it, anyway. But this time, something was different. He had spent hours by the window several times, but this time, he had skipped a whole school day. From the minute he woke up to when I came back from dinner, he had been sitting by that window, just staring.

At first, I thought it had just been the curious behavior of Professor Quirrel that had bothered him, but when I saw his eyes as I came back from dinner, it came to me. The mirror. What he had seen in that mirror had shaken him more deeply than I originally suspected. It made me all the more curious as to what he had seen...

Immediately, Harry put down the parchment and walked back to the window, assuming his original position of leaning against the wall with one hand in his pocket, staring out at the Forbidden Forest, but what he was looking at was something completely different. His mind drifted back to the Mirror of Erised...

"Mum... Dad..." Harry whispered softly as the memory of seeing his parents in that mirror flashed in his mind. He remembered that evening as though it was yesterday. Everything in that room as memorized so well that it was as though he had an actual image of it burned into his head. Even to this day, he felt a desire to see that mirror again...

"Magic truly is an amazing and terrifying thing..."

The door behind him opened, and by the sound of the footsteps, he could tell that it was Neville.

"Evening, Neville," Harry said without taking his eyes away from the window.

"So, you're finally conscious, huh?" Neville asked, setting down his bag on his trunk by the sound of it. "Much to think about?"

"Too much," Harry said with a nod. "This bothers me, Neville. Although I know exactly who the culprit is, she doesn't fit into this. Whoever is behind this is someone much cleverer than her, someone much more cautious, someone much more sinister..."

"Like that Molarty guy?" Neville asked, and Harry felt himself twitch. Neville had never liked the Holmes books as much as Harry did. In fact, Neville never even managed to finish reading A Study in Scarlet, as he preferred seeing Harry, a real person, work instead. But still...

"It's Moriarty, Neville..." Harry spoke through gritted teeth. Sometimes, he believed Neville said names and such wrong on purpose, just to annoy him. "And yes, this could be the Moriarty to my Holmes."

"So, what you're saying is that the culprit isn't really the culprit?"

"She put the message on the wall, she was at the scene of the crime, but I don't think she controlled whatever it was that Petrified Mrs. Norris, and she didn't do any of the above on purpose."

Harry turned to look at Neville, who had sat down on his trunk and looked to be thinking hard.

"Mind control, then?" Neville suggested, and Harry nodded.

"That is one possibility. However," he added when Neville opened his mouth to speak, "I find it hard to believe that she is under the Imperius Curse."

The two lapsed into a long silence as they both thought about the problem at hand. They remained in the same position for a good five minutes, looking like statues, before Harry finally spoke.

"Did you want something?"

"Oh, yes!" Neville said, snapping out of his thoughts. "I came to tell you that Filch has cleaned up the water in the corridor where Mrs. Norris was found. I thought you might want to take another look."

"An excellent idea, Neville," Harry said with a nod. Without another word, he moved over to his bed and picked up his frock coat and hat, putting them on before heading for the door. "Come along, Neville!"

Neville fought to contain his laughter as he walked with Harry, who had a certain spring in his step. It was to be expected. After all, Harry had thought this case was pretty much solved, and now he had figured out that there was someone else behind it. As they turned a corner and found themselves at the end of the corridor where the attack had happened, Neville immediately noticed something that he hadn't seen before. Scorch marks, but that was pretty much the only new thing he saw, though. To Neville, the scene was just as it had been that night, except that there was no stiff cat hanging from the torch bracket, and an empty chair stood against the wall bearing the message 'The Chamber of Secrets has been opened.' It was the chair Filch had used when keeping guard in the corridor.

Harry wasted no time in getting to his hands and knees so that he could crawl along, searching for clues. Neville watched, and saw him looking over the scorch marks.

"Here, and here..." Harry muttered to himself. "That would make it... Hm..."

"Has it ever occurred to you that we don't have the same line of thought, and I would very much appreciate knowing just what it is you discover?" Neville asked, crossing his arms.

"Oh, Neville, if I were to explain to you all the things I see and know that you do not, that would take all day."

Neville felt his eye twitch. He knew that Harry wasn't trying to insult him or anything, but still, that one stung...

"Thanks..."

"Ah, sorry," Harry mumbled, giving Neville an apologetic look. "But-"

"I know, I know, we simply have different brains," Neville said, waving him off. He had heard it before, and knew it quite well. "You have your skills, and I have mine. I wasn't offended."

"Hm, yes..." Harry said as he gave Neville a doubtful look, before going back to his investigation, moving away from the scorch marks. "Well, what do we have here, then? Neville, come take a look at this, please."

Neville raised an eyebrow and moved over to Harry, who was pointing at the topmost pane of the window next to the message on the wall, where around twenty spiders were scuttling, apparently fighting to get through a small crack. A long, silvery thread was dangling like a rope, as though they had all climbed it in their hurry to get outside.

"Spiders, so what?" Neville asked, shrugging. Harry gave Neville a small smile.

"Again, you see, but do not observe, Neville. Take a look at the most obvious. Have you ever, ever, seen spiders act like that?"

Neville looked again. True, spiders weren't usually crawling over each other, pushing and fighting as if they were in a line to get tickets to a really exciting show that only had one ticket left...

"They look almost... frightened?" Neville mused, and Harry nodded.

"Indeed they do. What does that tell you?"

Neville hummed.

"Well, spiders are afraid of humans, and flee at the sight of them, but never to this degree..."

"Which leads us to conclude that the person who wrote the message on the wall was controlling something that definitely wasn't a human," Harry nodded, a smile appearing on his face. "And although that raises several more questions, it confirms one thing."

"And that is...?" Neville asked, raising an eyebrow.

"The horror within, Neville, the horror within!" Harry said triumphantly, looking more excited than Neville had ever seen him. "It exists, Neville, I am sure of it! The Chamber of Secrets is very much real, and whoever is controlling poor little Ginny also has access to a chamber no one can find, controlling a beast that is capable of terrifying spiders to the point of sheer bloody panic!"

"Ginny?" Neville asked, shocked. "Ginny Weasley?"

"But of course, that one was obvious," Harry said, waving him off and still looking excited.

"Come to think of it," Neville said, putting a hand on his chin in thought, "she has been looking a bit paler than usual..." He shook his head. He knew Harry wouldn't confront Ginny about it. That would no doubt make the investigation useless and boring in his opinion. "So anyway, do you have any suspicions as to what the beast is?"

"I have an idea, but it is highly unlikely," Harry said, shaking his head. "There is a creature that terrifies spiders in particular, and which is serpentine, and as we know, Slytherin was a Parselmouth, possessing the ability to speak to snakes. However, the Basilisk's gaze kills its victims, not Petrifies them."

"So, we're on square one on that front, then?"

"Indeed we are," Harry confirmed with a happy nod. "Isn't this exciting, Neville?"

"Some would call it that," Neville muttered. "Others would say that this is a very dangerous situation, and the castle should be emptied until the teachers can find and stop the culprit."

"Yes, but those people are very, very boring, don't you think?"

"I hate to admit it," Neville said, feeling a smile spreading on his face, "but you're right. This is sort of exciting."

"That's the spirit! Now then," Harry said and clapped his hands together, "into the bathroom we go."

Blinking, Neville followed Harry over to the door leading into Myrtle's bathroom and stepped inside. It was no longer flooded, but the floor was still very damp.

"Well, Filch used a mop," Harry said with a disappointed sigh, "so searching for footprints is useless, if that one is anything to go by," he muttered and pointed to the floor. Neville looked down and saw nothing. He knelt and leaned closer to the floor. That was when he saw an imprint, a bit darker than the rest of the floor, which, from the pattern, was the heel of a standard issue shoe, part of the school uniform. Filch's mop, which must have been used more fervently than usual, had practically wiped out the whole print, leaving only an inch or so of the very back of the heel.

"Well, from what I can tell of the prints that haven't been wiped away, only one set of shoes have been here, judging by the size," Neville concluded, more to himself than to Harry, as he looked around at all the other partial prints that were nearly completely wiped out by Filch's mopping and scrubbing. Harry had no doubt already figured that out.

"Only one set of shoes in the bathroom everyone avoids, the same set of shoes that left a bit of mud by that sink, mud now gone, thanks to our caretaker," Harry said, pointing at the sinks.

"Then whoever is controlling her wasn't with her at the time," Neville concluded, to which Harry nodded.

"Correct. But that is not the most important question here," Harry said, taking out his pipe and lighting it. "The question is this: Why did she come in here after committing the crime? It was not to hide, of that I am quite certain... She- oh, good evening."

Neville looked up from his inspection of the floor to look at whoever Harry had spoken to. Outside the end stall, floating a few feet above the ground, was Moaning Myrtle, who was eyeing them suspiciously.

"This is a girls' bathroom," she said. "You're not girls."

"Your powers of observation are astounding," Harry said with a smile. "Myrtle, were you here on the night when Mrs. Norris was attacked? Did you see anyone?"

"I wasn't paying attention," Myrtle said dramatically. "Peeves upset me so much I came in here and tried to kill myself. Then, of course, I remembered that I'm... that I'm..."

"Already dead," Neville supplied helpfully.

Myrtle gave a tragic sob, rose in the air, turned over and dove headfirst into the stall, splashing water all over the floor as she apparently dove into the toilet.

"That girl needs to cheer up..." Harry muttered as he shook his head.

"You know, male students caught in the girls' bathroom were hung by their thumbs in the dungeon back when I was a student," came a cheerful, aged voice from the doorway, making both Harry and Neville spin around. Their wands were in their hands, and ready for anything, when they saw Albus Dumbledore standing in the doorway, his twinkling eyes seemingly studying their forms in amusement.

"Very quick reaction, boys," he praised happily as he strode up to them. "But a coward attacking from behind would not give any warning first."

"Forgive us, Professor," Harry said lightly as he holstered his wand, Neville doing the same.

Neville couldn't believe it. After all his adventures with Harry, he reacted on instinct in these situations, and as a result, they had almost thrown curses at the Headmaster himself! Neville felt his cheeks burn with embarrassment, but Harry looked as unfazed as ever.

"Doing a bit of detective work, are we?" Dumbledore asked, obviously not offended by their reactions. "How is that working for you?"

"Rather well, actually, despite several dead ends and lack of clues," Harry said, excitement shining in his eyes again. "It's a very intriguing case."

"Very good, very good, because that is actually why I am here in this dark and depressing bathroom," Dumbledore said as he reached into his plume-colored robes and pulled out one of Harry's fliers. "I would like to hire you, Harry."

Silence ensued as Harry and Neville stared at Dumbledore, Harry in pleasant surprise and Neville in shock. After a moment of silence, Harry turned to Neville with an amused look on his face.

"On your list of the things you thought you'd never hear, where was that?"

"That was probably number ten," Neville mumbled, still in shock.

"One Sickle per day, Professor," Harry said, to which Dumbledore immediately nodded. "Well then, I shall only charge you for the days I do work on the case, and you will come through with the payment once the case is solved?"

"I shall," Dumbledore said with another nod. "Are you that certain that the case will be solved?"

"Of course I am. It is only a matter of time."

"Well then," Dumbledore said, reaching out and shaking Harry's hand. "I will inform the faculty that you two, along with Miss Granger, are to be given free reign. You shall be allowed to be out past curfew, and every room will be available to you, save for the teachers' offices."

"You're very kind, Professor, thank you," Harry said with a polite bow of his head, while Neville just stared in mute shock.

"I will leave you boys to it, then," Dumbledore said, and with a graceful bow, he left the moist and smelly bathroom.

"Old codger already knows who is doing this," Harry muttered to himself as he dropped to his knees again, inspecting the floor. Neville nodded slowly in agreement, and it took a moment for what Harry had just said to connect in his head.

"W-Wait, what?" he asked, not even trying to hide his surprise. "He does?"

"Yes, he does," Harry said without looking at Neville. "The question he wants answered is not 'who,' but rather 'how.'"

"And he leaves the investigation to us because...?"

Harry shrugged.

"That's a newt tail..." Neville muttered, staring at the Gryffindor seventh-year who he'd met at the entrance hole of the Gryffindor common room. "Or rather, that's a rotting newt tail."

"It'll protect you," the Gryffindor assured him with a smile. "I'm giving it to you for a bargain price. Five Galleons."

"No thanks..." Neville said as he brushed past the older boy. He wasn't as smart as Harry, but he was smart enough to know when someone was trying to trick him. He climbed through the hole and into the common room, which was nearly empty. The reason for this was Harry, who was sitting in his usual chair with his violin in his lap, slowly dragging his bow along the strings, creating a noise that sounded nothing like music.

Neville knew why his friend was playing such horrible tunes. There had been another attack, and, from what Neville could tell when they visited it, there were no clues at the crime scene. Harry, of course, must have found several clues, but he must have found them very frustrating.

"This bothers me, Neville," Harry said the second Neville sat down in his usual chair. Harry put down the violin and grabbed his pipe, grunting as he started stuffing it with tobacco. "All the evidence so far points to a Basilisk, but none of the victims so far have been found dead, only Petrified, and still, I am no closer to finding out who the mastermind behind all this is..."

"And you're still not going to confront Ginny?" Neville asked, and Harry shook his head.

"If I do, I risk scaring off the mastermind, and then I would probably never catch him. No, it isn't through Ginny that we can get this man. We need to catch him in the act."

"Well, that's a little hard, isn't it?" Neville asked, getting a grunt from Harry. "I mean, it seems no one knows what the beast is, no one can figure out how it moves around the castle, or who is controlling it. And with the attack on Colin, people are really getting scared."

"And the con-artists are taking advantage of the situation."

"Indeed. One of them tried to sell me a rotting newt tail."

Harry gave a bark of laughter in amusement, shaking his head. It was as though the stupidity of some people never ceased to amaze him.

"So, you have signed up to stay in school over the winter?" Harry asked after a moment of silence, and Neville nodded.

"Yeah, I told Gran that there's a mystery going on here in school, and that I really want to help you solve it. Anything I do that's like my dad, she approves of, so she agreed that it would be best for me to stay," Neville said with a smile, which was returned by Harry. Neville didn't have to ask if Harry was staying. He always did.

"Hey, what's this?" Neville asked suddenly, noticing a pile of letters on the table between them. He picked them up and looked them over. All of them were addressed to Harry. "Cases?"

"Indeed," Harry said with a nod. "Nothing as interesting as the case at present, though."

Neville opened one of the envelopes and read the letter, while Harry picked up a discarded issue of the Prophet.

"Mandy Brocklehurst, from Ravenclaw," Neville read, humming, "has lost her diamond earrings. Or rather, she believes them to have been stolen."

"Her dorm mate borrowed them, without permission I might add, and intends to return them after Christmas," Harry answered immediately, not taking his eyes off the paper. "Is it Wednesday already?"

Neville smiled slightly, shaking his head in disbelief. "Yes, Harry..."

"Peculiar... I could have sworn it was Tuesday."

Neville opened another letter and smiled.

"Ah, Hannah Abbott, Hufflepuff, reports that her cat, Mittens, has run away."

"A fraud. She set the miserable cat free, against the wishes of her parents, and wants to make it seem like it ran away," Harry answered, sounding a bit bored. Then, he perked up. "Oh, the Bats beat the Wasps again."

"You know, one day you are going to have to tell me how you predict who wins these matches," Neville muttered as he handed over three Galleons to his friend, who chuckled. "When was the last time you changed your clothes, by the way?"

Looking Harry over, he noticed that Harry was wearing the same clothes he had worn the last six days, a dirty, voluminous shirt, black braces, and black pants. The shirt had the top three buttons undone, though he didn't wear his silk scarf at the moment.

"Seven days, I think," Harry answered, not at all embarrassed.

Neville shook his head and picked up his wad of parchment, chapter twenty-five of his book.

From this point on, I was not present, but what follows is notes that Harry has given me, a retelling of the events that took place after I had gone back to get Professor Dumbledore.

I do not wish to sound arrogant, but I was not surprised when I stepped through the fire and found there that my theory was correct. Snape was not the man attempting to steal the Stone. It was Quirrel. His acting had been near perfect, and that is what had given him away. One little slip of his stutter in one of the classes had revealed that it was all an act.

"You don't seem very surprised," Quirrel spoke with a cold, sharp laugh. "If anyone would suspect me over Severus, it would be you, Potter."

"Hm, I don't think I retold the tale properly," Harry spoke, glancing over at Neville. "I think it makes me sound too arrogant."

"Well, you are, aren't you?" Neville asked as he raised an eyebrow. "And for good reason, too."

"Hey, guys, did you hear?" came the excited voice of Seamus Finnigan as he came into the common room with Dean Thomas, both of them looking equally excited. "They're starting a Dueling Club!"

"First meeting is tomorrow night," Dean said with a grin. "I wouldn't mind dueling lessons. They might come in handy one of these days."

"What, Slytherin's monster can duel?" Neville asked sarcastically, getting laughs from his three friends.

"I can guess who's hosting it," Harry said with a hint of a smirk on his face. "We should go, watch the man make a fool out of himself in public once more."

Neville was all for it, so the next day, they hurried to the Great Hall with Hermione. The long dining tables had vanished, and a golden stage had appeared along one wall, lit by thousands of candles floating overhead. The ceiling was velvety black, and most of the school seemed to be packed beneath it, all carrying their wands and looking excited. Neville, however, was feeling rather bored, and looking at his pipe-smoking friend, he noticed that Harry's expression mirrored his.

"I wonder who will be teaching?" Hermione said as they made their way through the chattering crowd.

"Flitwik was a dueling champion when he was young," Harry said with a sigh. "But obviously, he's too busy with classes to prepare something like this, so the obvious answer is... Lockhart."

As if answering Harry, Gilderoy Lockhart walked onto the stage at that moment, resplendent in robes of deep plum and accompanied by none other than Snape, wearing his usual black.

Lockhart waved an arm for silence and called, "Gather round, gather round! Can everyone see me? Can you all hear me? Excellent!

"Now, Professor Dumbledore has granted me permission to start this little dueling club, to train you all in case you ever need to defend yourselves as I myself have done on countless occasions. For full details, see my published works."

Neville heard Harry mutter something that sounded like "Rubbish..." from next to him, which got him a weak glare from Hermione.

"Let me introduce my assistant, Professor Snape!" Lockhart said, flashing a wide smile. "He tells me he knows a tiny bit about dueling himself and has sportingly agreed to help me with a short demonstration before we begin. Now, I don't want any of you youngsters to worry. You'll still have your Potions master when I'm through with him, never fear!"

Snape's upper lip was curling, and Neville knew that he was just itching to curse Lockhart. He didn't blame the Potions master. He didn't know why Lockhart was still smiling, though. If Snape had been looking at him like that, he'd be holding his wand at the ready to block any incoming curses. Either that, or he'd just run away.

Lockhart and Snape turned to face each other and bowed. At least, Lockhart did, with much twirling of his hands, whereas Snape jerked his head irritably. Then, they raised their wands like swords in front of them.

"As you see, we are holding our wands in the accepted combative position," Lockhart told the silent crowd. "On the count of three, we will cast out first spells. Neither of us will be aiming to kill, of course."

"Shame, that," Harry muttered to Neville, who barely managed to suppress a snort of amusement. Judging by the look on Snape's face, the Potions master shared Harry's opinion.

"One... two... three!"

Both of them swung their wands above their heads and pointed them at their opponent. Snape cried, "Expelliarmus!" There was a dazzling flash of scarlet light, and Lockhart was blasted off his feet. He flew backward off the stage, smashed into the wall, and slid down it to sprawl on the floor.

After a few seconds of silence, Harry started clapping loudly, with Neville quickly doing the same. The Slytherins cheered for Snape, who looked unsatisfied, as if he felt that he hadn't used a strong enough spell.

Lockhart was getting unsteadily to his feet. His hat had fallen off and his wavy hair was standing on end.

"Well, there you have it!" he said, tottering back onto the platform. "That was a Disarming Charm. As you can see, I've lost my wand, ah, thank you, Miss Brown, yes, an excellent idea to show them that, Professor Snape, but if you don't mind my saying so, it was very obvious what you were about to do. If I had wanted to stop you, it would have been only too easy. However, I felt it would be instructive to let them see..."

Snape was looking murderous, and Lockhart must have finally noticed it, because he said, "Enough demonstrating! I'm going to come amongst you now and put you all into pairs. Professor Snape, if you'd like to help me..."

They moved through the crowd, matching up partners. Snape, unfortunately, reached Harry and Neville first.

"Time to split up the dream team, I think," he sneered. "Longbottom, you can partner with Finch-Fletchley. Potter... Mr. Malfoy, come over here. Let's see what you make of the famous Potter. And you, Miss Granger, you can partner Miss Bulstrode."


	8. Chapter 8

How predictable... Harry scoffed to himself as Malfoy strutted over, smirking. Behind him walked Millicent Bulstrode, a large, square girl, with a heavy jaw that jutted out aggressively.

"Face your partners!" Lockhart called, back on the platform. "And bow!"

Harry and Malfoy barely inclined their heads, not taking their eyes off each other.

"Wands at the ready!" Lockhart shouted. "When I count to three, cast your charms to disarm your opponents. Only to disarm them, we don't want any accidents. One... two... three!"

Although Malfoy had already started on two, Harry had had enough training with Hermione and Neville that his wand was already pointed straight at Malfoy's chest as he cried, "Expelliarmus!"

The spell impacted with Malfoy's chest, knocking him off his feet and sending his wand sailing into Harry's waiting hand. All too easy, honestly. All around him, people were casting all kinds of different spells in amusement. Harry didn't really blame them for wanting to have a little fun, but when he had to duck under a poorly aimed Tickling Charm, that was when he rolled up his dirty sleeves and sent one right back at Ron Weasley, who didn't manage to dodge, sinking to his knees, barely able to move from laughing so hard.

Now this was fun, the thought that suddenly popped into Harry's head. Without much care, he started wildly throwing spells around him, hitting people here and there. As expected, they started retaliating, but Harry didn't care, blocking and countering with a joyful laugh.

"I said disarm only!" Lockhart cried in alarm over the heads of the battling crowd, but no one listened to him. Harry's back made contact with Neville, whose poor aim had made him the enemy of several students as well. Although, his aim wasn't poor at all, so he must have done it on purpose as well.

"I'm glad we came here!" Harry told his friend as he blocked a Disarming Charm and sent a Tarantallegra back at the caster.

"Me too! Although this is rather bothersome!" Neville said. Harry, glancing back, noticed that Hermione was one of the people Neville had attracted the attention of.

"Finite Incantatem!" came the powerful shout of Snape, and at that moment, all fighting ceased as a haze of greenish smoke was hovering over the scene. Only now in the quiet did Harry notice a cut on his cheek. Obviously, someone had barely missed hitting him with a Cutting Curse.

Taking a look around, Harry noticed that most of his opponents were on the ground, panting heavily, while the others were glaring at him defiantly.

"Dear, dear..." Lockhart said, skittering through the crowd, looking at the aftermath of the duels. "Up you go, Macmillan. Careful there, Miss Fawcett... Pinch it hard, it'll stop bleeding in a second, Boot... I think I'd better teach you how to block unfriendly spells," he said, standing flustered in the midst of the hall. He glanced at Snape, whose black eyes glinted, and looked away quickly. "Let's have a volunteer pair. Longbottom and Finch-Fletchley, how about you-"

"A bad idea, Professor Lockhart," Snape said, gliding over like a large and malevolent bat. "Longbottom's aim, as you saw, is so poor that he would only end up causing devastation."

Harry heard Neville's knuckled pop in anger as his friend clenched his fists, and put a hand on Neville's shoulder to calm him down.

"How about Malfoy and Potter?" Snape suggested with a twisted smile.

"Excellent idea!" Lockhart said, gesturing Harry and Malfoy into the middle of the hall as the crowd backed away to give them room.

"Now, Harry," Lockhart said. "When Draco points his want at you, you do this."

He raised his own wand, attempted a sort of wiggling action, and dropped it. Snape smirked as Lockhart quickly picked it up, saying, "Whoops, my wand is a little overexcited..."

Snape moved closer to Malfoy, and whispered something in his ear. Malfoy smirked, too, and Harry clicked his tongue.

"Three... two... one... go!" Lockhart shouted.

Malfoy raised his wand quickly and bellowed, "Serpensortia!"

The end of his wand exploded, and Harry watched as a long, black snake shot out of it, fell heavily onto the floor between them, and raised itself, ready to strike. There were screams as the crowd backed swiftly away, clearing the floor.

"Don't move, Potter," Snape said lazily just as Harry was about to raise his wand to transfigure the snake. "I'll get rid of it..."

"Allow me!" Lockhart shouted. He brandished his wand at the snake, and there was a loud bang. The snake, instead of vanishing, flew ten feet into the air and fell back to the floor with a loud smack. Enraged, hissing furiously, it slithered straight toward Justin Finch-Fletchley and raised itself again, fangs exposed, poised to strike.

Harry wasn't sure what made him do it. He wasn't even aware of deciding to do it. All he knew was that his legs were carrying him forward toward the snake, and he shouted at the snake, "Leave him alone!"

Miraculously, inexplicably, the snake slumped to the floor, docile as a thick, black garden hose, its eyes now on Harry, who tilted his head to the side.

"Come over here," he told the snake, and he was pleasantly surprised when the snake obeyed him, remembering idly how he had spoken to that snake in the zoo when he was ten. He looked up at Justin, smiling, expecting to see Justin looking relieved, puzzled, or even grateful, but certainly not angry and scared.

"What do you think you're playing at?" he shouted, and before Harry could say anything, Justin had turned and stormed out of the hall.

Snape stepped forward, waved his wand, and the snake vanished in a small puff of black smoke. Snape, too, was looking at Harry in an unexpected way. It was a shrewd and calculating look, and Harry didn't like it. He was also aware of an ominous muttering around the walls. Then, he felt a tugging on the back of his shirt.

"Come on," Neville muttered into Harry's ear, Hermione at his side. "Move... come on..."

Neville steered Harry out of the hall in quiet disbelief. Harry was a Parselmouth? Why hadn't he ever told Neville about that? As they went through the doors, the people on either side drew away as though they were frightened of catching something. Neville shook his head at how easily swayed the populace of the school was. One minute Harry was a hero, the next he was a villain...

Neville didn't speak until they got back to the Gryffindor common room and taken their usual seats.

"Why haven't you ever told us you're a Parselmouth?"

But to Neville's surprise, Harry just blinked in polite curiosity.

"Pardon?" he asked curiously. "I'm not a Parselmouth..."

"Yes, you are, Harry," Hermione said seriously. "We all heard you. You hissed at the snake, and it obeyed you."

"I thought I was speaking plain English," Harry said with a shrug, taking out his pipe and chewing on it. "Although, now that you mention it, I did talk to that boa constrictor at the zoo when I was ten..."

Neville shook his head in disbelief. "And now I'm willing to bet that, even if you called off the snake, everyone's going to call you the Heir of Slytherin..."

Harry snapped his fingers three times in quick succession.

"That only continues to prove my theory to be correct."

"But Basilisk gazes kill," Neville muttered thoughtfully. "They don't Petrify..."

"Well, I'll simply have to find it and ask it how it does this," Harry said with a smirk, lighting his pipe. "The game's afoot."

At that, Neville was immediately reminded of a Shakespeare play that he had heard about once. It was from one of his Gran's books.

"'Follow your spirit, and upon this charge-'"

"'-cry, 'God for Harry, England, and St. George!'" Harry and Hermione finished together with Neville, which caused all three of them to burst into laughter.

By next morning, the snow that had begun in the night had turned into a blizzard so thick that the last Herbology lesson of the term was canceled.

The castle was darker than it usually was in daytime because of them thick, swirling gray snow at every window. Shivering, Harry and Neville walked past classrooms where lessons were taking place, catching snatches of what was happening within. Professor McGonagall was shouting at someone who, by the sound of it, had turned his friend into a badger. Resisting the urge to take a look, Neville followed Harry to the library. Harry wanted to talk to Justin, and Neville, having finished his book and sent it to his Gran, had nothing better to do than to follow him.

As Harry had predicted, a group of Hufflepuffs who should have been in Herbology were indeed sitting at the back of the library, but they didn't seem to be working. Between the long lines of high bookshelves, Neville could see that their heads were close together and they were having what looked like an absorbing conversation. They were walking toward them when something of what they were saying met their ears, and they paused to listen, hidden in the Invisibility section.

"So anyway," a stout boy was saying, "I told Justin to hide up in our dormitory. I mean to say, if Potter's marked him down as his next victim, it's best if he keeps a low profile for a while. Of course, Justin's been waiting for something like this to happen ever since he let slip to Potter he was Muggle-born. Justin actually told him he'd been down for Eton. That's not the kind of thing you bandy about with Slytherin's heir on the loose, is it?"

"You definitely think it is Potter, then, Ernie?" a girl with blonde pigtails asked anxiously. Hannah Abbott, the fifth-year Hufflepuff Neville admitted that he had a crush on. Well, he could admit it to himself, but never his friends...

"Hannah," the stout boy said solemnly, "he's a Parselmouth. Everyone knows that's the mark of a Dark wizard. Have you ever heard of a decent one who could talk to snakes? They called Slytherin himself Serpent-tongue."

There was some heavy murmuring at this, and Ernie went on, "Remember what was written on the wall? 'Enemies of the Heir, Beware.' That fourth year, Creevey, was annoying Potter all the time, taking pictures of him whenever he could. Next thing we know, Creevey's been attacked."

"He always seems so nice, though, a little strange, but still nice," Hannah said uncertainly, "and, well, he's the one who made You-Know-Who disappear. He can't be all bad, can he?"

Ernie lowered his voice mysteriously, the Hufflepuffs bent closer, and Neville and Harry edged nearer so that they could catch Ernie's words.

"No one knows how he survived that attack by You-Know-Who. I mean to say, he was only a baby when it happened. He should have been blasted into smithereens. Only a really powerful Dark wizard could have survived a curse like that." He dropped his voice until it was barely more than a whisper, and said, "That's probably why You-Know-Who wanted to kill him in the first place. Didn't want another Dark Lord competing with him. I wonder what other powers Potter's been hiding?"

"Yes, Harry," Neville spoke up loudly, deciding to make their presence known. He couldn't take it anymore. "Studying the Dark Arts at age one, what were you thinking?"

"I'm sorry, Neville," Harry said, immediately getting in on the act, sighing dramatically, and Neville saw that he, too, could barely suppress a smile at how high the Hufflepuffs jumped in their seats. "It was just oh so tempting for an impressionable one-year old."

"Anyway, we were looking for Justin, but apparently he is up in your common room," Neville said, as Harry took out his pipe and chewed on it.

"I wanted to clear up this little misunderstanding. See, even though I clearly called the snake off, it seems that you all believe me to be the Heir of Slytherin."

"Which would have been understandable, had you not called off the snake," Neville reasoned.

"Which I did. So why would you think that I am the Heir?" Harry finished with a raised eyebrow.

"All I saw," Ernie said stubbornly, though he was trembling as he spoke, "was you speaking Parseltongue and chasing the snake toward Justin."

"I think you need your eyes checked," Neville said, scratching his head. "It didn't even touch him. It actually moved away from Justin when Harry spoke to it. How did you pass first year with that level of intelligence?"

"It was a very near miss," Ernie said, staring at Harry. "And in case you're getting ideas," he added hastily, "I might tell you that you can trace my family back through nine generations of witches and warlocks and my blood's as pure as anyone's, so-"

"Come, Neville," Harry interrupted with a sigh. "This level of stupidity might be contagious. We don't want to catch it."

"Agreed," Neville said with a nod as they walked off. "They don't actually believe all that, do they?"

He really didn't want Hannah to be so... well, he couldn't find the word for it, but he didn't want her to be it...

"I think they find the simplest answer and stick to it. Unlike most, they would rather be proven wrong than right," Harry reasoned with a shrug. Both of them came to a halt as they found none other than Hagrid at the other end of the corridor, coming toward them. His face was entirely hidden by a wooly, snow-covered balaclava, but it couldn't possibly be anyone else, as he filled most of the corridor in his moleskin overcoat. A dead rooster was hanging from one of his massive, gloved hands.

"All righ', boys?" he asked, pulling up the balaclava so he could speak. "Why aren't yeh in class?"

"Canceled," Harry said with a smile. "What are you doing in here?"

Hagrid held up the limp rooster.

"Second one killed this term," he explained. "It's either foxes or a Blood-Suckin' Bugbear, an' I need the headmaster's permission ter put a charm around the hen coop."

Neville saw Harry's eyes harden when they landed on the dead rooster. Everything now pointed to a Basilisk...

"Well, you should be on your way then, Hagrid," Harry said, nodding to the massive Groundskeeper, who nodded back.

"Take care of yerselves, both o' yeh," Hagrid said, before walking off.

Harry and Neville made their way up the stairs and turned along another corridor, which was particularly dark. The torches had been extinguished by a strong, icy draft that was blowing through a loose windowpane. They were halfway down the passage, when they both tripped headlong over something lying on the floor.

Neville turned to squint at what he'd fallen over, and felt as though his stomach had dissolved.

"Oh dear..." Harry muttered as they both stared at Justin Finch-Fletchley's rigid and cold body, a look of shock frozen on his face, his eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. But that wasn't all. Next to him was another figure, the strangest sight Neville had ever seen.

It was Nearly Headless Nick, no longer pearly-white and transparent, but black and smoky, floating immobile and horizontal, six inches off the floor. His head was half off and his face wore an expression of shock identical to Justin's.

Christmas morning dawned, cold and white. Harry sat once more by the window in the Gryffindor dorm room, staring out the window with his violin in his lap. The bow lay forgotten on the bed, and he idly plucked the strings on the violin as he went through everything he had found out so far. He had been sitting like this for a couple of hours now, furiously trying to figure out how a Basilisk could Petrify someone. Was it a different breed? A young Basilisk? Or maybe...

Mrs. Norris... Colin... Justin... Sir Nicholas... Scale... Dead roosters... Voice... Walls... Puddle... Camera... Ghost...

Yes, of course! Harry shot up from his chair, a triumphant smile on his face. The signs were all there, how could he have missed them?

"I'm losing my edge," Harry chided himself, slapping a hand to his forehead. Reflection! Possibly, only direct eye contact could kill. Mrs. Norris saw the Basilisk in the puddle of water from Myrtle's bathroom, Colin saw it through his camera, and Justin saw it through Sir Nicholas, who, being already dead, couldn't die again!

Harry let out a triumphant laugh, and just them, Neville and Hermione burst into the dormitory, carrying a large amount of presents.

"Happy Christmas, Harry," Hermione said with a smile. "You seem happy, finally."

"Come up with something?" Neville asked as Harry turned to them.

"Reflections and lenses!" Harry exclaimed jovially, and was greeted with strange looks from his friends. Sighing, he explained to them his theory of just how Slytherin's monster could be a Basilisk yet not kill anyone with its gaze.

"Of course!" Hermione said, slapping a hand to her forehead much like Harry had done. "How could we not see that before?"

"That was a rather big slip on my part, I admit," Harry said, "but now we know for sure what the monster is. And as an agile serpent, moving inside the walls, the logical conclusion, which I had come to long ago, is that it's moving through the pipes throughout the castle, which explains how it can move around unnoticed."

"That's a nice Christmas present," Neville said with a sigh of relief. "Now all we have to do is find out where it lives and tell the..." He trailed off and looked at the grinning Harry. "You're going after it alone, aren't you?"

"Unless you two wanna come with me, yes," Harry said with a nod.

"As if I could ever leave you two to get killed by a giant snake," Hermione said. "Of course I'm coming with you."

"Agreed," Neville said with a nod.

"Marvelous!" Harry cried happily. "Now, let's see the presents for this year!"

Hagrid had sent him a large tin of treacle toffee, which Harry decided to soften by the fire before eating, Neville had given him a new pipe, a straight, black clay pipe, much like the one Holmes had, and Hermione had bought him a luxury eagle-feather quill. All in all, a good haul. In return, Harry had given Neville a warm, black winter coat with fur lining and a warm fur collar, and he gave Hermione a hand-carved wooden box which held three ink wells, and had room for four quills. That present had gotten him a hug, leaving him feeling awkward.

No one, not even someone dreading facing a massive Basilisk in the near future, could fail to enjoy Christmas dinner at Hogwarts.

The Great Hall looked magnificent. Not only were there a dozen frost-covered Christmas trees and thick streamers of holly and mistletoe crisscrossing the ceiling, but enchanted snow was falling, warm and dry, from the ceiling. Dumbledore led them in a few of his favorite carols, Hagrid booming more and more loudly with every goblet of eggnog he consumed.

"You know, I'm surprised that the Prophet hasn't reported any of the attacks yet," Neville spoke, reading the Evening Prophet. Harry shrugged.

"Dumbledore probably doesn't want to cause any panic. It would be a shame if people started pulling their children out of school for something so simple."

Neville couldn't suppress a snort.

"Yeah... simple..."

It was weeks before anything interesting happened again. Neville and Harry were making their way toward the Gryffindor tower, when they heard an angry outburst from the floor above them.

"That's Filch," Harry muttered as they hurried up the stairs and paused, out of sight, listening hard.

"Think there's been another attack?" Nevile asked tensely, only to be hushed at.

They stood still, their heads inclined toward Filch's voice, which sounded quite hysterical.

"...even more work for me! Mopping all night, like I haven't got enough to do! No, this is the final straw, I'm going to Dumbledore..."

His footsteps receded along the out-of-sight corridor, and they heard a distant door slam. Harry gave a chuckle as he lit his pipe.

"Well, he didn't sound very happy," he said as they poked their heads around the corner. Filch had clearly been manning his usual lookout post, as they were once again on the spot where Mrs. Norris had been attacked. They saw at a glance what Filch had been shouting about. A great flood of water stretched over half the corridor, and it looked as though it was still seeping from under the door of Moaning Myrtle's bathroom. Now that Filch had stopped shouting, they could hear Myrtle's wails echoing off the bathroom walls.

"What's got her knickers in a twist now, then?" Neville asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Let's go and see," Harry said simply and walked straight toward the bathroom through the great wash of water, seemingly ignoring that his feet and pants were getting soaked. He was very good at that. Neville, however, gave a noise of disgust as he walked through the water. Those were brand new shoes, too...

They stepped through the door bearing its 'OUT OF ORDER' sign, ignoring it as usual, and found Myrtle crying, if possible, louder and harder than ever before. She seemed to be hiding down her usual toilet. It was dark in the bathroom because the candles had been extinguished in the great rush of water that had left both walls and floor soaking wet.

"My dear Myrtle, what's wrong?" Harry asked concernedly.

"Who's that?" Myrtle glugged miserably. "Come to throw something else at me?"

Harry waded across to her stall and said, "Why would I throw something at you?"

"Don't ask me!" Myrtle shouted, emerging with a wave of yet more water, which splashed onto the already sopping floor. "Here I am, minding my own business, and someone thinks it's funny to throw a book at me..."

"Were you hiding in the toilet again, Myrtle?" Harry asked gently, and it never ceased to amaze Neville how well Harry could speak to ghosts without offending them.

"What if I was?" Myrtle sniffed.

"Well, then they probably didn't intend to throw the book at you, my dear," Harry said soothingly. "It was merely an accident."

Myrtle sniffed again, but she seemed to take comfort in that fact.

"Did you see who threw it?"

"No... I was just sitting in the U-bend, thinking about death, and it fell right through the top of my head," Myrtle said with a dramatic sigh. "It's over there, it got washed out..."

Neville and Harry looked under the sink where Myrtle was pointing. A small, thin book lay there. It had a shabby black cover and was as wet as everything else in the bathroom. Harry stepped forward and picked it up, looking it over and slowly opening it.

"T. M. Riddle..." he read with a hum. Neville scratched his head. He recognized the name.

"I think I've heard that name before," Neville said thoughtfully. "I think Gran mentioned him once, something about a prize, or something. I know she wanted me to be more like him. Probably someone brave, or smart, or strong, or successful, or all of the above."

"She needs to start seeing Neville Longbottom for Neville Longbottom, I think," Harry said, inspecting the book. "Whoever he was, he was Muggle-born or a Halfblood."

"How do you know that?"

"Because the book was bought in a variety store on Vauxhall Road, London," Harry said, pointing out the print on the back of the book for Neville.

"And why are you taking it?" Neville asked as Harry pocketed it, only to get a shrug.

"No idea. Might come in handy."


	9. Chapter 9

Harry sat in front of the fire in the Gryffindor common room, along, and flicked through the blank pages of the diary he had found in Myrtle's bathroom, not one of which had a trace of ink on it. Then he took out a bottle of ink, dipped his quill into it, and dropped a blot onto the first page of the diary.

The ink shone brightly on the paper for a second and then, as though it was being sucked into the page, vanished. Smiling, Harry loaded up his quill a second time and wrote, "My name is Harry Potter."

The words shone momentarily on the page and they, too, sank without trace. Then, at last, something happened.

Oozing back out of the page, in his very own ink, came words Harry had never written.

"Hello, Harry Potter. My name is Tom Riddle. How did you come by my diary?"

These words, too, faded away, but not before Harry had started to scribble back.

"Someone tried to flush it down a toilet."

He waited eagerly for Riddle's reply.

"Lucky that I recorded my memories in some more lasting way than ink. But I always knew that there would be those who would not want this diary read."

"What do you mean?" Harry scrawled, blotting the page in his excitement.

"I mean that this diary holds memories of terrible things. Things that were covered up. Things that happened at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."

"That's where I am now," Harry wrote quickly. "I'm at Hogwarts, and peculiar things have been happening. Do you know anything about the Chamber of Secrets?"

His heart was hammering. Riddle's reply came quickly, his writing becoming untidier, as though he was hurrying to tell all he knew.

"Of course I know about the Chamber of Secrets. In my day, they told us it was a legend, that it did not exist. But this was a lie. In my fifth year, the Chamber was opened and the monster attacked several students, finally killing one. I caught the person who'd opened the Chamber and he was expelled. But the Headmaster, Professor Dippet, ashamed that such a thing had happened at Hogwarts, forbade me to tell the truth. A story was given out that the girl had died in a freak accident. They gave me a nice, shiny, engraved trophy for my trouble and warned me to keep my mouth shut. But I knew it could happen again. The monster lived on, and the one who had the power to release it was not imprisoned."

Harry nearly upset his ink bottle in his hurry to write back.

"It's happening again now. There have been three attacks and no one seems to know who's behind them. Who was it last time?"

"I can show you, if you like," came Riddle's reply. "You don't have to take my word for it. I can take you inside my memory of the night when I caught him."

Harry hesitated, his quill suspended over the diary. What did Riddle mean? How could he be taken inside somebody else's memory? He stared into the fire for a while, pondering. When he looked back at the diary, he saw fresh words forming.

"Let me show you."

Harry paused for a fraction of a second and then wrote two letters.

OK

The pages of the diary began to blow as though caught in a high wind, stopping halfway through the month of June. Mouth hanging open, Harry saw that the little square for June thirteenth seemed to have turned into a miniscule television screen. His hands trembling slightly, he raised the book to press his eye against the little window, and before he knew what was happening, he was tilting forward. The window was widening, he felt his body leave his chair, and he was pitched headfirst through the opening in the page, into a whirl of color and shadow.

He felt his feet hit solid ground, and stood, shaking, as the blurred shapes around him came suddenly into focus.

He knew immediately where he was. This circular room with the sleeping portraits was Dumbledore's office, but it wasn't Dumbledore who was sitting behind the desk. A wizened, frail-looking wizard, bald except for a few wisps of white hair, was reading a letter by candlelight. Harry had only seen this man on a portrait in Dumbledore's office.

"Excuse me?" Harry asked hesitantly. Was this like a Pensieve that he'd read about?

But the wizard didn't look up. He continued to read, frowning slightly. Harry, testing, moved over to the desk and waved his hand in front of the wizard's face. Still the wizard ignored him. He didn't seem even to have seen him. So, this was just a memory, then. Harry couldn't interfere.

The wizard folded up the letter with a sigh, stood up, walked past Harry without glancing at him, and went to draw the curtains at his window.

The sky outside the window was ruby-red. It seemed to be sunset. The wizard went back to the desk, sat down, and twiddled his thumbs, watching the door.

Harry looked around the office. No Fawkes the Phoenix, no whirring silver contraptions. This was Hogwarts as Riddle had known it, meaning that this wizard, Professor Armando Dippet, was Headmaster, not Dumbledore, and he, Harry, was little more than a phantom, completely invisible to the people of fifty years ago.

There was a knock on the office door.

"Enter," the old wizard said in a feeble voice.

A boy of about sixteen entered, taking off his pointed hat. A silver prefect's badge was glinting on his chest. He was a bit taller than Harry, but he, too, had jet-black hair.

"Ah, Riddle," the Headmaster said.

"You wanted to see me, Professor Dippet?" Riddle asked. He looked nervous.

"Sit down," Dippet said. "I've just been reading the letter you sent me."

"Oh," Riddle said. He sat down, gripping his hands together very tightly.

"My dear boy," Dippet said kindly, "I cannot possibly let you stay at school over the summer. Surely you want to go home for the holidays?"

"No," Riddle said at once. "I'd much rather stay at Hogwarts than go back to that... to that..."

"You live in a Muggle orphanage during the holidays, I believe?" Dippet asked curiously.

"Yes, sir," Riddle said, reddening slightly.

"You are Muggle-born?"

"Half-blood, sir," Riddle said. "Muggle father, witch mother."

"And are both your parents...?"

"My mother died just after I was born, sir. They told me at the orphanage she lived just long enough to name me. Tom after my father, Marvolo after my grandfather."

Dipper clucked his tongue sympathetically.

"The thing is, Tom," he sighed, "Special arrangements might have been made for you, but in the current circumstances..."

"You mean all these attacks, sir?" Riddle said, and Harry's heart leapt. He moved closer, scared of missing anything.

"Precisely," the headmaster said. "My dear boy, you must see how foolish it would be of me to allow you to remain at the castle when term ends. Particularly in light of the recent tragedy... the death of that poor little girl... You will be safer by far at your orphanage. As a matter of fact, the Ministry of Magic is even now talking about closing the school. We are no nearer locating the... er, source of all this unpleasantness..."

Riddle's eyes had widened.

"Sir, if the person was caught... if it all stopped..."

"What do you mean?" Dippet said with a squeak in his voice, sitting up in his chair. "Riddle, do you mean you know something about these attacks?"

"No, sir," Riddle said quickly.

Harry crossed his arms, raising an eyebrow at that.

Dippet sank back, looking faintly disappointed.

"You may go, Tom..."

Riddle slid off his chair and slouched out of the room. Harry followed him.

Down the moving spiral staircase they went, emerging next to the gargoyle in the darkening corridor. Riddle stopped, and so did Harry, watching him. Harry could tell that Riddle was doing some serious thinking. He was biting his lip, his forehead furrowed.

Then, as though he had suddenly reached a decision, he hurried off, Harry gliding noiselessly behind him. They didn't see another person until they reached the entrance hall, when a tall wizard with long, sweeping auburn hair and a beard called to Riddle from the marble staircase.

"What are you doing, wandering around this late, Tom?"

Harry gaped at the wizard. He was none other than a fifty-year-younger Dumbledore. He actually looked good with auburn hair.

"I had to see the headmaster, sir," Riddle said.

"Well, hurry off to bed," Dumbledore said, giving Riddle exactly the kind of penetrating stare Harry knew so well. "Best not to roam the corridors these days. Not since..."

He sighed heavily, bade Riddle good night, and strode off. Riddle watched him walk out of sight and then, moving quickly, headed straight down the stone steps to the dungeons, with Harry in hot pursuit.

But to Harry's disappointment, Riddle led him not into a hidden passageway or a secret tunnel, but to the very dungeon in which Harry had Potions with Snape. The torches hadn't been lit, and when Riddle pushed the door almost closed, Harry could only just see him, standing stock-still by the door, watching the passage outside.

It felt to Harry that they were there for at least an hour. All he could see was the figure of Riddle at the door, staring through the crack, waiting like a statue. And just when Harry had stopped feeling expectant and tense and started wishing he could return to the present, he heard something move beyond the door.

Someone was creeping along the passage. He heard whoever it was pass the dungeon where he and Riddle were hidden. Riddle, quiet as a shadow, edged through the door and followed, Harry tiptoeing behind him, forgetting that he couldn't be heard.

For perhaps five minutes they followed the footsteps, until Riddle stopped suddenly, his head inclined in the direction of new noises. Harry heard a door creak open, and then someone speaking in a hoarse whisper.

"C'mon... gotta get yeh outta here... C'mon now... in the box..."

There was something familiar about that voice...

Riddle suddenly jumped around the corner. Harry stepped out behind him. He could see the dark outline of a huge boy who was crouching in front of an open door, a very large box next to it.

"Evening, Rubeus," Riddle said sharply.

The boy slammed the door shut and stood up.

"What yer doin' down here, Tom?"

Riddle stepped closer.

"It's all over," he said. "I'm going to have to turn you in, Rubeus. They're talking about closing Hogwarts if the attacks don't stop."

"'N at d'yeh-"

"I don't think you meant to kill anyone. But monsters don't make good pets. I suppose you just let it out for exercise and-"

"It never killed no one!" the large boy said, backing against the closed door. From behind him, Harry could hear a funny rustling and clicking.

"Come on, Rubeus," Riddle said, moving yet closer. "The dead girl's parents will be here tomorrow. The least Hogwarts can do is make sure that the thing that killed their daughter is slaughtered..."

"It wasn't him!" the boy roared, his voice echoing in the dark passage. "He wouldn'! He never!"

"Stand aside," Riddle said, drawing out his wand.

His spell lit the corridor with a sudden flaming light. The door behind the large boy flew open with such force it knocked him into the wall opposite. And out of it came something that made Harry wrinkle his nose.

A vast, low-slung, hairy body and a tangle of black legs, a gleam of many eyes and a pair of razor-sharp pincers... Riddle raised his wand again, but he was too late. The thing bowled him over as it scuttled away, tearing up the corridor and out of sight. Riddle scrambled to his feet, looking after it. He raised his wand, but the huge boy leapt on him, seized his wand, and threw him back down, yelling, "NOOOOOO!"

The scene whirled, the darkness became complete. Harry felt himself falling and, with a crash, he landed in a mess in the chair in front of the open fire in the Gryffindor common room, Riddle's diary lying open on his stomach.

Panting slightly at the rush, Harry took several deep breaths to calm himself. Then, he looked down at the diary.

"Most peculiar..."

"Hagrid?" Neville asked the next day as they looked through the trophy room, examining Riddle's special award for services to the school. Riddle's burnished gold shield was tucked away in a corner cabinet. It didn't carry any details of why it had been given to him, though. However, they did find Riddle's name on an old Medal for Magical Merit, and on a list of old Head Boys.

"Yes, Hagrid," Harry answered calmly.

"Hagrid opened the Chamber of Secrets?" Neville asked with a snort. "Yeah, the Heir of Slytherin is a bearded giant..."

"Half-giant," Harry said, looking up from the Medal for Magical Merit.

"You agree?" Neville asked in disbelief.

"No, I don't agree. It's more than technicality, you see," Harry said. "You are misrepresenting the dimensions of larger peoples."

"You're upset, I can tell," Neville said in amusement.

"Well, of course I am. That diary lied to me. At the very least, Tom Riddle got Hagrid expelled. Hagrid wouldn't harm a fly, an neither would he allow any... erm, pet... of his to do so, either."

"Maybe he was just mistaken? Riddle, I mean?"

Harry made a noise that told Neville to stop asking questions, and he did. When Harry was deep in thought, it was unwise to interrupt him.

They didn't speak of the diary again, or about Hagrid, having decided not to act on that lead unless there was another attack, which never happened, even as winter vanished, and March rolled in. The Mandrakes Sprout had been growing had thrown a loud and raucous party in greenhouse three, which had made Professor Sprout very happy.

"The moment they start trying to move into each other's pots, we'll know they're fully mature," she told Neville. "Then we'll be able to revive those poor people in the hospital wing."

The studying for the OWLs became even more intense in Easter, especially with the threat of Slytherin's Monster gone. Neville had been startled to discover that there were only six weeks left until their exams. On the first week after the Easter Holidays, however, the Gryffindors were called one-by-one into Professor McGonagall's office for career advice. Neville was called in at half-past two on Monday, while Harry was to meet her immediately after that.

"I think Healing might be a good choice for me," Neville spoke, looking through a leaflet that carried the crossed bone-and-wand emblem of St. Mungo's on its front. "It says here you need at least an E at NEWT level in Potions, Herbology, Transfiguration, Charms, and Defense Against the Dark Arts."

"That's a very responsible job," Hermione said, nodding in approval. "Healer Longbottom. I like the sound of that."

Neville felt his face flush in embarrassment, and Harry chuckled, looking through a Muggle Relations leaflet.

"Then again, that might interfere with my writing..." Neville said with a hum. "Maybe a private Healer?"

"I hear those make a lot of money," Harry said, nodding idly as he looked through the leaflet. "Listen to this. You only need an OWL in Muggle Studies. 'Much more important is your enthusiasm, patience, and a good sense of fun!' Clearly, they have never met my uncle."

Neville and Hermione burst out laughing at that.

"Come again, Potter?"

Harry sat in McGonagall's office, chewing on his pipe, which was unlit. He hated repeating himself, but it seemed that he was having to do that more and more the older he got. He would've thought people would take him more seriously as he got older, but apparently, that was not to be.

"I said, I wish to be a consultant detective," Harry repeated calmly. "I don't intend to take any other job after I finish school. Whether anyone wishes to hire me or not, that is entirely up to them. Their loss, honestly, but I can live on the interest of what my parents left me alone, so I'm not worried."

"But if you wish to solve crimes and such, why not sign up to be an Auror?" McGonagall asked, to which Harry laughed.

"And become a tool of the system, forced to obey orders and solve trivial cases that are beneath me? No thank you, Professor. I prefer my plan of being a consultant detective."

"But without experience, no one will take you seriously."

"I have, in total now, solved fifty-seven cases here at Hogwarts with ease, and am on the verge of solving one of Britain's biggest mystery. I believe my fellow students will spread around just how experienced I am. That, coupled with the O's I will get in my tests, speak for itself, I believe."

"That's awfully arrogant of you, Potter," McGonagall chided, and Harry laughed.

"Well, if telling the truth is being arrogant, then I guess I am, Professor. See, I will get O's in all my tests, I will settle for no less. Same with my NEWTs. I will do it."

McGonagall stared hard at Harry for a few moments, and then sighed.

"Well, I suppose it is true, then," she said with the tiniest hint of a smile on her face. "You are very much like your father, and have the brains of Albus Dumbledore. I am sure you will do very well, Potter. But I still strongly suggest that you pick a job."

"Your suggestion is noted, Professor, and I thank you for your concern, but it isn't needed. I am quite certain about my career path. In fact, I have even rented an apartment in Diagon Alley. I will be moving in this summer."

McGonagall blinked.

"But you are not yet of age."

"There are a few clauses, emancipating a minor, in a manner of speaking, if he lives in a household one might view as abusive," Harry said calmly. "I have researched the Ministry laws very carefully, and have found that I am allowed to live on my own, seeing as I have the funds for it, along with a proper mindset."

"Well, my congratulations to you, then, Mr. Potter. Now, if you are quite sure about your career path, I see that we have nothing further to discuss. That concludes our career consultation."

"Thank you, Professor," Harry said as he stood up, shaking the surprised McGonagall's hand. "It's very kind of you to see your teaching position and position as Head of House as more than just simple duty. It's nice that you actually care about your students."

With a nod, Harry left McGonagall's office, finding Neville waiting outside.

"How did it go?" Neville asked as Harry made his way over to him.

"Oh, as well as can be expected. She tried to get me to pick a job, but I was quite adamant on the subject. Finally, she yielded, and I think I left her gaping when we were done."

"What are we doing here again?" Neville asked as the two made their way through the school.

"We are going to see the girl who I believe is the one who was killed the last time the Chamber was opened," Harry said. "Myrtle."

"Moaning Myrtle?" Neville asked in disbelief. "Our Moaning Myrtle?"

"The very same," Harry nodded.

"So, you think the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets is in a girls' bathroom?"

"No," Harry said slowly, giving Neville an annoyed look. "I know that it's in a girls' bathroom, and not just any bathroom. Myrtle's bathroom. And I would prefer it if you called her that."

Purposefully, Harry strode over to the door to Myrtle's bathroom and opened it, stepping inside with Neville following with a sigh.

Moaning Myrtle was sitting on the tank of the end toilet.

"Oh, it's you," she said when she saw Harry. "What do you want this time?"

"To ask how you died," Harry said.

Myrtle's whole aspect changed at once. She looked as though she had never been asked such a flattering question.

"Ooooh, it was dreadful," she said with relish. "It happened right in here. I died in this very stall. I remember it so well. I'd hidden because Olive Hornby was teasing me about my glasses. The door was locked, and I was crying, and then I head somebody come in. They said something funny. A different language, I think it must have been. Anyway, what really got me was that it was a boy speaking. So, I unlocked the door, to tell him to go and use his own toilet, and then..." Myrtle swelled importantly, her face shining. "...I died."

"How?" Harry inquired curiously, chewing on his pipe.

"No idea," Myrtle said in a hushed tone. "I just remember seeing a pair of great, big, yellow eyes. My whole body sort of seized up, and then I was floating away..." She looked dreamily at Harry. "And then I came back again. I was determined to haunt Olive Hornby, you see. Oh, she was sorry she'd ever laughed at my glasses."

"Where exactly did you see the eyes?" Harry asked.

"Somewhere there," Myrtle said, pointing vaguely toward the sink in front of her toilet.

Harry and Neville hurried over to it. It looked, to Neville, like an ordinary sink, but Harry immediately pointed out something, Scratched on the side of one of the copper taps was a tiny snake.

"That tap's never worked," Myrtle said brightly as Harry tried to turn it.

"That's because it isn't a tap, my dear," Harry said as he took a step back. He closed his eyes for a second, and then opened his mouth, letting out the strange, hissing sound of Parseltongue. At once, the tap glowed with a brilliant white light and began to spin. Next second, the sink began to move. The sink, in fact, sank, right out of sight, leaving a large pipe exposed, a pipe wide enough for a man to slide into.

Harry looked up at Neville, who gestured for the hole.

"After you."

Harry nodded and slid his legs into the pipe.

"Oh, Harry," came Myrtle's voice, making them both look back at her. "If you die down there, you're welcome to share my toilet," the ghost said with a shy smile.

"Thank you, Myrtle," Harry said, tilting his hat toward Myrtle, before sliding down the hole, Neville following.

It was like rushing down an endless, slimy, dark slide. He could see more pipes branching off in all directions, but none as large as theirs, which twisted and turned, sloping steeply downward, and he knew he was falling deeper below the school than even the dungeons. In front of him, Harry couldn't contain a whoop.

And then, just as Neville had begun to worry about what would happen when he hit the ground, the pipe leveled out, and he shot out of the end with a wet thud, landing on the damp floor of a dark stone tunnel large enough to stand in.

Harry gave off an "Mm," of mixed disgust and... curiosity? "It's really quite filthy down here," he muttered in amusement as he took off his now dirty and torn frock coat, Neville doing the same.

"We must be miles under the school," Neville mused, his voice echoing in the tunnel.

"No doubt, we are under the lake," Harry said, scrutinizing the dark, slimy walls.

The two of them lit their wands and stared into the darkness ahead.

"You're with me, Neville?" Harry asked, and Neville nodded.

"All the way to the end."

"Remember," Harry said quietly as they walked cautiously forward, "any sign of movement, close your eyes..."

"And my book was just published, too..." Neville muttered, shaking his head. "Maybe it'll sell better if I'm dead?"

"Oh, don't be silly, Neville," Harry chided. "Whether you're dead or not, I'm sure it'll be a best-seller."

"That's the part where you're supposed to assure me that I'm not going to die."

Harry was just silent, which made Neville gulp.

"Oh, Gryffindor, where dwell the brave of heart..." Neville muttered nervously.

"Now you're just being dramatic."

The tunnel was quiet as the grave, and the first unexpected sound they heard was a loud crunch as Neville stepped on what turned out to be a rat's skull. Neville lowered his wand to look at the floor and saw that it was littered with small animal bones. He allowed Harry to lead the way forward, around a dark bend in the tunnel.

"Harry, there's something there," Neville whispered, grabbing Harry's shoulder.

They froze, watching. Neville could see the outline of something huge and curved, lying right across the tunnel. It wasn't moving.

"Maybe it's asleep?" Neville breathed nervously, glancing at Harry, who slowly stepped forward, his wand held high.

The light slid over a gigantic snake skin, of a vivid, poisonous green, lying curled and empty across the tunnel floor. The creature that had she it must have been twenty feet long at least.

"Blimey..." Neville whispered weakly, tilting his hat back and wiping sweat off his forehead. "Brave of heart..."

Gulping, Neville followed Harry past the giant snake skin.

Every nerve was tingling in Neville's body as the tunnel turned and turned again. He wanted it to end, to find out what was there, yet he dreaded it at the same time. He was amazed at how calm Harry looked, as though everything was exactly the way he expected it to be. Then, at last, as they crept around another bend, he saw a solid wall ahead on which two entwined serpents were carved, their eyes set with great, glinting emeralds.

Harry approached, with Neville following. Although the snakes weren't real, their eyes looked strangely alive, leaving Neville's throat dry. Harry cleared his throat, and gave off another low, faint hiss. The serpents parted as the wall cracked open. The halves slid smoothly out of sight, and Harry and Neville walked inside.

They were standing at the end of a very long, dimly lit chamber. Towering stone pillars entwined with more carved serpents rose to support a ceiling lost in darkness, casting long, black shadows through the odd, greenish gloom that filled the place. His heart beating very fast, Harry stood listening to the chill silence.

He moved forward between the serpentine columns, Neville following. Every careful footstep echoed loudly off the shadowy walls. He kept his eyes narrowed, ready to clamp them shut at the smallest sign of movement. The hollow eye sockets of the stone snakes seemed to be following him. More than once, with a jolt of the stomach, he thought he saw one stir.

Then, as he drew level with the last pair of pillars, a statue high as the Chamber itself loomed into view, standing against the back wall.

Harry had to crane his neck to look up into the giant face above: It was ancient and monkeyish, with a long, thin beard that fell almost to the bottom of the wizard's sweeping stone robes, where two enormous gray feet stood on the smooth Chamber floor. And leaning against one of the pillars was none other than Ginny. Though her eyes were different. Her eyes were a menacing scarlet.

"Tom Marvolo Riddle," Harry said with a chuckle. "Or should I say Lord Voldemort?"

"How, exactly, did you deduce that?" Tom Riddle asked.

"Oh, it would have been impossible, was it not for you mentioning your middle name in that memory," Harry said, smiling. "Very clever, to use an anagram. Of course, I was slightly stumped when an I, an A, and an M were left, but soon came to the conclusion that you went for, 'I am Lord Voldemort.'"

"You are as clever as Ginny has described," Riddle said, smiling. "Smarter, even."

"You're too kind. However, there is something that bothers me."

"And that is?"

"Are you a ghost?"

"A memory," Riddle said quietly. "Preserved in a diary for fifty years."

He pointed toward the floor near the statue's giant toes. Lying open there was the little black diary Harry had found in Moaning Myrtle's bathroom.

"Ah, so it was possession, then," Harry deduced, getting an approving nod from Tom.

"Tell me something in return," Riddle said. "How did you find this place?"

"Oh, that was tricky. I admit, I was puzzled, but there was one clue that got me started on the right path. The water on the floor in Myrtle's bathroom has a distinctive smell, one that I found on all crime scenes," Harry explained, getting a nod from Riddle. "However, what showed me the way was Myrtle. She told me. I came to ask her because of the smell, along with the fact that the first attack, and the writing, took place near her bathroom. Now, I have a question."

"Yes?" Riddle asked, smirking coldly.

"How, exactly, did Ginny get like this?" he asked slowly.

"Well, that's an interesting question," Riddle said pleasantly. "And quite a long story. I suppose the real reason Ginny Weasley's like this is because she opened her heart and spilled all her secrets to an invisible stranger."

"The diary?"

"The diary," Riddle said, nodding. "My diary. Little Ginny's been writing in it for months and months, telling me all her pitiful worries and woes... how her brothers tease her, how she had to come to school with secondhand robes and books, how..." Riddle's eyes glinted "...how she didn't think famous, good, great Harry Potter would ever like her..."

All the time he spoke, Riddle's eyes never left Harry's face. There was an almost hungry look in them.

"It's very boring, having to listen to the silly little troubles of an hormonal, fourteen-year old girl," he went on. "But I was patient. I wrote back. I was sympathetic, I was kind. Ginny simply loved me. No one's ever understood me like you, Tom... I'm so glad I've got this diary to confide in... It's like having a friend I can carry around in my pocket..."

Riddle laughed, a high, cold laugh that didn't suit the body he inhabited. It made the hairs stand up on the back of Harry's neck.

"If I say it myself, Harry, I've always been able to charm the people I needed. So Ginny poured out her soul to me, and her soul happened to be exactly what I wanted... I grew stronger and stronger on a diet of her deepest fears, her darkest secrets. I grew powerful, far more powerful than little Miss Weasley. Powerful enough to start feeding Miss Weasley a few of my secrets, to start pouring a little of my soul back into her..."

"Also making her open the Chamber, write eery messages on the walls, kill roosters, and sic the Basilisk on people."

"Indeed," Riddle said calmly.

"You cruel bastard," Neville growled, taking a step forward, only to be stopped by Harry.

"Calm down, Neville. That's still Ginny's body."

Neville twitched, glaring at Riddle, then nodded.

Riddle smirked.

"Of course, she didn't know what she was doing at first. It was very amusing. I wish you could have seen her new diary entries... far more interesting, they became... Dear Tom," he recited, "'I think I'm losing my memory. There are rooster feathers all over my robes and I don't know how they got there. Dear Tom, I can't remember what I did on the night of Halloween, but a cat was attacked and I've got paint all down my front. Dear Tom, Ron keeps telling me I'm pale and I'm not myself. I think he suspects me... There was another attack today and I don't know where I was. Tom, what am I going to do? I think I'm going mad... I think I'm the one attacking everyone, Tom!'"

"Sick, twisted, evil," Harry mumbled, smiling at Riddle. "Just what I'd expect from my Moriarty."

"It took a very long time for stupid little Ginny to stop trusting her diary," Riddle said, looking pleased at the fact that Harry considered him the Moriarty to his Sherlock Holmes. "But she finally became suspicious and tried to dispose of it. And that's where you came in, Harry. You found it, and I couldn't have been more delighted. Of all the people who could have picked it up, it was you, the very person I was most anxious to meet..."

"Because of your downfall at my hands, in a manner of speaking?" Harry guessed, getting a nod from Riddle.

"Yes, you see, Ginny told me all about you, Harry," Riddle said. "Your whole fascinating history." His eyes roved over the lightning scar on Harry's forehead, and their expression grew hungrier. "I knew I must find out more about you, talk to you, meet you if I could. So I decided to show you my famous capture of that great oaf, Hagrid, to gain your trust..."

"But you only made me suspicious," Harry interrupted, getting a confused look from Riddle. "You were too eager to show me the memory, and you really shouldn't have shown me your conversation with Dippet. You showed that you had no intention to find the criminal, until you found out that your chance for staying in school over the summer was threatened. That, and Dumbledore showed suspicion of you."

"Yes, only the Transfiguration teacher, Dumbledore, seemed to think Hagrid was innocent. He persuaded Dippet to keep Hagrid and train him as gamekeeper. Yes, I think Dumbledore might have guessed... Dumbledore never seemed to like me as much as the other teachers did..."

"Saw right through you, no doubt," Harry said, getting a nod from Riddle.

"Well, he certainly kept an annoyingly close watch on me after Hagrid was expelled," Riddle said carelessly. "I knew it wouldn't be safe to open the Chamber again while I was still at school. But I wasn't going to waste those long years I'd spent searching for it. I decided to leave behind a diary, preserving my sixteen-year-old self in its pages, so that one day, with luck, I would be able to lead another in my footsteps, and finish Salazar Slytherin's noble work."

"You haven't finished it," Harry said. "No one's died this time, not even the cat. In a few hours the Mandrake Draught will be ready and everyone who was Petrified will be all right again... Unless... Ah..." Harry smiled. "That's not your goal anymore."

"Indeed," Riddle said quietly. "Killing Mudbloods doesn't matter to me anymore. For many months now, my new target has been... you."

"I'm honored."

"Imagine how angry I was when the next time my diary was opened, it was Ginny who was writing to me, not you. She saw you with the diary, you see, and panicked. What if you found out how to work it, and I repeated all her secrets to you? What if, even worse, I told you who'd been strangling roosters? So the foolish little brat waited until your dormitory was deserted and stole it back. But I knew what I must do. It was clear to me that you were on the trail of Slytherin's heir. From everything Ginny had told me about you, I knew you would go to any lengths to solve the mystery... particularly if one of your best friends was attacked. And Ginny had told me the whole school was buzzing because you could speak Parseltongue...

"I have been waiting for you to appear since we arrived here. I knew you'd come. I have many questions for you, Harry Potter."

"Like what?" Harry asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Well," Riddle said, smiling pleasantly again, "how is it that you, a skinny boy with no extraordinary magical talent, managed to defeat the greatest wizard of all time? How did you escape with nothing but a scar, while Lord Voldemort's powers were destroyed?"

"I see you're talking about yourself in third person now. Do you like your name that much?"

"Yes," Riddle said, nodding. "It is a name I fashioned myself, a name I knew wizards everywhere would one day fear to speak, when I had become the greatest sorcerer in the world!"

"You're not," Harry said with a smile.

"Not what?" Riddle snapped.

"Not the greatest sorcerer in the world," Harry said calmly. "Sorry to disappoint you and all that, but the greatest wizard in the world is Albus Dumbledore. Everyone says so. Even when you were strong, you didn't dare try and take over at Hogwarts. Dumbledore saw through you when you were at school and he still frightens you now, wherever you're hiding these days..."

The smile had gone from Riddle's face, to be replaced by a very ugly look.

"Dumbledore's going to be driven out of this castle by the mere memory of me!" he hissed.

"He wouldn't be as gone as you might think," Harry retorted. He was aiming to scare Riddle, wishing rather than believing it to be true.

Riddle opened his mouth, but froze.

Music was coming from somewhere. Riddle whirled around to stare down the empty Chamber. The music was growing louder. It was eerie, spine-tingling, unearthly. It lifted the hair on Harry's scalp and made his heart feel as though it was swelling to twice its normal size. Then, as the music reached such a pitch that Harry felt it vibrating inside his own ribs, flames erupted at the top of the nearest pillar.

A crimson bird the size of a swan had appeared, piping its weird music to the vaulted ceiling. It had a glittering golden tail as long as a peacock's and gleaming golden talons, which were gripping a ragged bundle.

A second later, the bird was flying straight at Harry. It dropped the ragged thing it was carrying at his feet, then landed heavily on his shoulder. As it folded its great wings, Harry looked up and saw it had a long, sharp golden beak and a beady black eye.

Dumbledore was right. Fawkes was very handsome.

The bird stopped singing. It sat still and warm next to Harry's cheek, gazing steadily at Riddle.

"That's a phoenix," Riddle said, staring shrewdly back at it.

"Good to see you on a good day, Fawkes," Harry said pleasantly, and he felt the bird's golden claws squeeze his shoulder gently.

"And that..." Riddle said, now eyeing the ragged thing that Fawkes had dropped. "...that's the old school Sorting Hat..."

So it was. Patched, frayed, and dirty, the hat lay motionless at Harry's feet.

Riddle began to laugh again. He laughed so hard that the dark chamber rang with it, as though ten Riddles were laughing at once.

"This is what Dumbledore sends his defender! A songbird and an old hat! Do you feel brave, Harry Potter? Do you feel safe now?"

"Oh, I feel very safe," Harry said, nodding with a smile.

"To business, Harry," Riddle said, still smiling broadly. "Twice, in your past, in my future, we have met. And twice I failed to kill you. How did you survive? Tell me everything. The longer you talk," he added softly, "the longer you stay alive."

Harry was thinking fast, weighing his chances. Riddle had a wand, Ginny's wand, probably. He, Harry, had his wand, Fawkes and the Sorting Hat. The longer Riddle stood there, the more life was dwindling out of Ginny... and in the meantime, Harry noticed suddenly, Riddle's outline was becoming clearer, more solid... If it had to be a fight between him and Riddle, better sooner than later.

"No one knows why you lost your powers when you attacked me," Harry said abruptly. "I don't know myself. But I know why you couldn't kill me. Because my mother died to save me. My common Muggle-born mother," he added, smiling at the thought of the 'common muggle-born' stopping the Dark Lord. "She stopped you killing me. And I've seen the real you, I saw you last year. You're a wreck. You're barely alive. That's where all your power got you. You're in hiding. You're ugly, you're foul..."

Riddle's face contorted. Then he forced it into an awful smile. "So. Your mother died to save you. Yes, that's a powerful countercharm. I can see now... there is nothing special about you, after all. I wondered, you see. There are strange likenesses between us, after all. Even you must have noticed. Both half-bloods, orphans, raised by Muggles. Probably the only two Parselmouths to come to Hogwarts since the great Slytherin himself. We even look something alike... but after all, it was merely a lucky chance that saved you from me. That's all I wanted to know."

Harry stood, tense, waiting for Riddle to raise his wand. But Riddle's twisted smile was widening again.

"Now, Harry, I'm going to teach you a little lesson. Let's match the powers of Lord Voldemort, Heir of Salazar Slytherin, against famous Harry Potter, and the best weapons Dumbledore can give him..."

He cast an amused eye over Fawkes and the Sorting Hat, then walked away. Harry watched Riddle stop between the high pillars and look up into the stone face of Slytherin, high above him in the half-darkness. Riddle opened his mouth wide and hissed, but Harry understood what he was saying...

"Speak to me, Slytherin, greatest of the Hogwarts Four."

Harry stared, tightening his grip on his wand. "Very intriguing. Stay sharp, Neville!" he ordered, looking up at the statue, Fawkes swaying on his shoulder.

Slytherin's gigantic stone face was moving. Harry saw his mouth opening, wider and wider, to make a huge, black hole.

And something was stirring inside the statue's mouth. Something was slithering up from its depths. Harry backed up until he stood next to Neville, screwing his eyes shut while Fawkes took flight.

Something huge hit the stone floor of the Chamber. Harry felt it shudder. He knew what was happening, he could sense it, could almost see the giant serpent uncoiling itself from Slytherin's mouth. Then, he head Riddle's hissing voice:

"Kill them."

"What did he say?" Neville asked.

"He said, 'Kill them.'"

Neville was shivering, but he still managed to squeeze out a weak chuckle.

"How rude..."

The Basilisk was moving toward them. Harry could hear its heavy body slithering heavily across the dusty floor. Eyes still tightly shut, Harry grabbed Neville and began to run blindly sideways.

"Lead the way," he told Neville, turning around and running backwards, his wand raised. Now, if he could just hear it again, he'd have something to aim-

Something heavy hit Harry and Neville so hard they were smashed into the wall. Waiting for fangs to sink through his body, he heard mad hissing, something thrashing wildly off the pillars.

He couldn't help it. He opened his eyes wide enough to squint at what was going on.

The enormous serpent, bright, poisonous green, thick as an oak trunk, had raised itself high in the air and its great blunt head was weaving drunkenly between the pillars. As Harry prepared himself to close his eyes again, he saw what had distracted the snake.

Fawkes was soaring around its head, and the Basilisk was snapping at him with fangs long and thin as sabers.

Fawkes dived. His long, golden beak sank out of sight and a sudden shower of dark blood spattered the floor. The snake's tail thrashed, narrowly missing Harry, and before Harry could shut his eyes, it turned. Harry looked straight into its face and saw that its eyes, both its great, bulbous yellow eyes, had been punctured by the phoenix. Blood was streaming to the floor, and the snake was spitting in agony.

"Neville," Harry said, elbowing his friend, who hesitantly opened his eyes.

"NO!" Harry heard Riddle screaming. "LEAVE THE BIRD! LEAVE THE BIRD! THE BOYS ARE BEHIND YOU! YOU CAN STILL SMELL THEM! KILL THEM!"

"Neville, this is our chance!" Harry yelled, elbowing Neville, whose eyes opened immediately, gaping at the sight in front of him. Harry raised his wand. "Bombarda Maxima!"

An explosion went off by the basilisk's neck, but it didn't do more than irritate it.

"STOP!" Harry hissed in Parseltongue, but Tom Riddle just laughed.

"The basilisk only takes orders from the Heir of Slytherin, but nice try, Potter."

Harry glanced at Neville, who had for some reason picked up the Sorting Hat.

"Fawkes brought it here for a reason!" Neville yelled. "Distract the snake!"

Harry nodded and sent spell after spell at it, but to no effect. The spells just bounced off the scales and blew large chunks out of the chamber they were in, making it shake from the power used.

"Harry!"

Harry looked to Neville again, to see him pull something out of the Sorting Hat. Gleaming silver, it was a sword with a ruby-encrusted handle. Neville tossed the sword to Harry, who waved his wand at it.

The sword stopped in mid-air and soared toward the basilisk, who lunged at Harry. Harry barely had time to dodge as he saw the sword pierce through the basilisk's scales.

The basilisk's head slammed into the wall where Harry had been a second before, and the sword plunged straight into the wall of the chamber.

So the sword can hurt it...

Harry aimed his wand at the sword again, and it yanked itself out of the wall to float in front of Harry.

The basilisk lunged again, and the sword flew forward, straight into the serpent's gob with enough force to completely stop it in its tracks, and instead soar backward and bury itself, along with the sword, into the statue of Slytherin.

For a few moments, there was silence. Then, Riddle's angered cry was heard, and Harry raised his wand to block a spell from the memory. He blocked and blocked, then attacked, only for his eyes to widen when his Stunner passed through him. Riddle laughed.

"You cannot kill me, Potter. But I can kill you! Avada Kedavra!"

The green light burst from Ginny's wand, that familiar green light. Harry dodged, and saw the diary not far from where Riddle was standing. He flicked his wand, and the diary went soaring to Neville.

"Neville, the diary! Destroy it!"

Neville seemed to catch on immediately, bless him, for he raised his wand and yelled, "Accio sword!"

The sword came flying out of the basilisk's mouth, dropping its pinned carcass to the ground, and as soon as Neville grabbed the sword, he stabbed it into the diary.

There was a long, dreadful, piercing scream. Ink splurted out of the diary in torrents, streaming over Neville's feet, flooding the floor. Riddle was writhing and twisting, screaming and flailing, and then...

He had gone. Ginny's wand fell to the floor with a clatter, followed by Ginny and there was silence. Silence except for the steady drip drip of ink still oozing from the diary, the sword still stabbed through it.

"Well, isn't that something to tell the grandkids?" Harry said happily, as though without a care in the world, as he gestured for the dead basilisk.

"You're paying for these shoes, Harry..."

Fawkes was leading the way, glowing gold along the corridor. Harry, Neville, and Ginny strode after him, Ginny with tears streaming down her face, and moments later, found themselves outside Professor McGonagall's office.

Harry knocked and pushed the door open.

For a moment there was silence as Harry, Neville, and Ginny stood in the doorway, covered in muck and slime and (in Harry's case) basilisk blood.

Professor Dumbledore was standing by the mantelpiece, beaming, next to Professor McGonagall, who was taking great, steadying gasps, clutching her chest. Fawkes went whooshing past Harry's ear and settled on Dumbledore's shoulder.

"You found the Chamber? How?" Professor McGonagall asked weakly. She obviously didn't need Harry's powers of deduction to figure out where they'd been. "And what is Miss Weasley doing here?"

Harry walked over to the desk and laid upon it the Sorting Hat, the ruby-encrusted sword, and what remained of Riddle's diary. Then he started telling them everything. For nearly a quarter of an hour he spoke into the rapt silence: He told them all about his discoveries. The disembodied voice, him realizing that the beast was a Basilisk, figuring out that it was Ginny, and finding the Chamber of Secrets.

"Very well," Professor McGonagall prompted him as he paused, "so you found out where the entrance was, breaking a hundred school rules into pieces along the way, I might add, but how on earth did you two get out of there alive, Potter?"

So Harry, his voice now growing hoarse from all this talking, told them about Fawkes's timely arrival and about the Sorting Hat giving Neville the sword. He told them about how he dueled Riddle, and about how Neville finally vanquished him.

"Miss Weasley should go up to the hospital wing right away," Dumbledore spoke in a firm voice. "This has been a terrible ordeal for her. There will be no punishment. Older and wiser wizards than she have been hoodwinked by Lord Voldemort." He strode over to the door and opened it. "Bed rest and perhaps a large, steaming mug of hot chocolate. I always find that cheers me up," he added, twinkling kindly down at her. "You will find that Madam Pomfrey is still awake. Mr. Longbottom, please guide Miss Weasley there."

Neville nodded and guided Ginny out of the room.

"You know, Minerva," Professor Dumbledore said thoughtfully to Professor McGonagall, "I think all this merits a good feast. Might I ask you to go and alert the kitchens?"

"Right," Professor McGonagall said crisply, also moving to the door. "I'll leave you to deal with Potter, shall I?"

"Certainly," Dumbledore said.

She left, and Harry dug his hand into his pocket, fishing out his pipe and putting it in his mouth.

"I think..." Dumbledore said slowly. "...that an award is in order."

Harry smiled.

"You and Mr. Longbottom will receive a Special Award for Services to the School and, let me see, yes, I think one hundred and fifty points for Gryffindor, each."

Dumbledore crossed to one of the chairs by the fire.

"Sit down, Harry," he said, and Harry sat, feeling stiff and sore. He needed to work out some more...

"First of all, Harry, I want to thank you," Dumbledore said, eyes twinkling again. "You must have shown me real loyalty down in the Chamber. Nothing but that could have called Fawkes to you."

He stroked the phoenix, which had fluttered down onto his knee. Harry couldn't recall a time when he showed real loyalty to Dumbledore. He was merely having a conversation with Riddle...

"And so you met Tom Riddle," Dumbledore said thoughtfully. "I imagine he was most interested in you..."

Suddenly, something that was nagging at Harry came tumbling out of his mouth.

"Professor Dumbledore... Riddle said I'm like him. Strange likenesses, he said..."

"Did he, now?" Dumbledore asked, looking thoughtfully at Harry from under his thick silver eyebrows. "And what do you think, Harry?"

"I must admit, the eery similarities are there. We both have similar looks, we're both halfbloods, he lived in a muggle orphanage that he really didn't want to return to, and I lived with my relatives, who I don't want to return to. The only difference between us is that he's a Slytherin, and I'm a Gryffindor, and he uses his powers for evil, and I use mine for good." He paused for a while. "Though the Sorting Hat told me I'd have done well in Slytherin. Everyone thought I was Slytherin's heir for a while... because I can speak Parseltongue..."

"You can speak Parseltongue, Harry," Dumbledore said calmly, "because Lord Voldemort, who is the last remaining descendant of Salazar Slytherin, can speak Parseltongue. Unless I'm much mistaken, he transferred some of his own powers to you the night he gave you that scar. Not something he intended to do, I'm sure..."

"Voldemort put a bit of himself in me?" Harry asked, thunderstruck.

"It certainly seems so."

Harry chewed on his pipe in thought for a few moments, Dumbledore watching him.

"Most engaging..."

"But why dwell on it? The Sorting Hat put you in Gryffindor," Dumbledore said calmly. "Listen to me, Harry. You happen to have many qualities Salazar Slytherin prized in his hand-picked students. His own very rare gift, Parseltongue, resourcefulness, determination, a certain disregard for rules," he added, his mustache quivering again. "Yet the Sorting Hat placed you in Gryffindor. You know why that was. Think."

"It only put me in Gryffindor," Harry said, "because I asked not to go in Slytherin..."

"Exactly," Dumbledore said, beaming once more. "Which makes you very different from Tom Riddle. It is our choices, Harry, that show what we truly are, far more than our abilities." Harry sat motionless in his chair, stunned. "If you want proof, Harry, that you belong in Gryffindor, I suggest you look more closely at this."

Dumbledore reached across to Professor McGonagall's desk, picked up the blood-stained silver sword, and handed it to Harry. Dully, Harry turned it over, the rubies blazing in the firelight. And then he saw the name engraved just below the hilt.

Godric Gryffindor

"Only a true Gryffindor could have pulled that out of the hat, Harry," Dumbledore said simply.

For a minute, neither of them spoke. Then Dumbledore pulled open one of the drawers in Professor McGonagall's desk and took out a quill and a bottle of ink.

"What you need, Harry, is some food and sleep. I suggest you go down to the feast, while I draft an advertisement for the Daily Prophet," he said thoughtfully. "We'll be needing a new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher... Dear me, we do seem to run through them, don't we?"

Harry didn't want to end the conversation there. Another thing was nagging at him, what Dumbledore had said, about Voldemort putting a piece of himself in Harry, but from the look on Dumbledore's face, he knew the conversation was over.

"Case closed."

Harry was sitting in a bed in the hospital wing. After going to the feast, he'd decided to go there, to do something about the pain in his arm. Naturally, Madam Pomfrey had immediately forced a pain relieving potion down his throat, and forced him into one of the beds, where he had to stay for the night.

Harry had been to several Hogwarts feasts, but never one quite like this. Everybody was in their pajamas, and the celebration lasted all night. Harry didn't know whether the best bit was Hermione running toward him, screaming, "You solved it! You solved it!" or Justin hurrying over from the Hufflepuff table to wring his hand and apologize endlessly for suspecting him, or Hagrid turning up at half past three, cuffing Harry and Neville so hard on the shoulders that they were knocked into their plates of trifle, or their three hundred points for Gryffindor securing the House Cup for the second year running, or Professor McGonagall standing up to tell them all that the exams had been canceled as a school treat (There were still OWLs to be sat, though), or Dumbledore announcing that, unfortunately, Professor Lockhart would be unable to return, owing to the fact that he had run away when charged with finding the Chamber, and that he, himself, would be taking over Defense Against the Dark Arts for the rest of the year. Quite a few of the teachers joined in the cheering that greeted this news.

So, now, Harry was sitting in his bed, chewing on his pipe, which he had explained to Madam Pomfrey many times was only used for chewing on, not smoking. Hermione was sitting in a chair between his and Neville's beds, talking about the Chamber, and what had happened. Hermione had listened intently, the perfect audience.

"So, what case do you think we'll get next year?" Neville asked as he helped himself to a chocolate frog from a pile sent to Harry by his 'fans,' just as Madam Pomfrey came walking up.

"There's only one case that intrigues me at present. The curious case of Madam Pomfrey, the absentee nurse. I've been studying her comings and goings. They appear most... sinister."

"Pain reliever, Mr. Potter?" Madam Pomfrey asked pleasantly as she set down a pain relieving potion next to Harry's bed.

"Is it poisoned, Nanny?" Harry asked spitefully, upset about the fact that she was fifteen minutes late in giving him his pain reliever.

"You are such a comedian, Mr. Potter," Madam Pomfrey spoke humorlessly as she walked off.


	10. Chapter 10

ORDINARY WIZARDING LEVEL RESULTS

Pass Grades Fail Grades

Outstanding (O) Poor (P)

Exceeds Expectations (E) Dreadful (D)

Acceptable (A) Troll (T)

Harry James Potter has achieved:

Ancient Runes - O

Care of Magical Creatures - O

Charms - O

Defense Against the Dark Arts - O

Arithmancy - O

Herbology - O

History of Magic - O

Potions - O

Transfiguration - O

"See?" Harry said, holding his OWL results out to Neville as they sat in Harry's flat in 221B Diagon Alley, the flat he had chosen only because of the number on the building.

"All O's," Neville muttered. "What a surprise..."

If Harry's room on Privet Drive had looked messy, then his living room in his flat was a war zone. It was littered with stuff; clothes, ink wells, parchments, books, quills, all kinds of things littered the floor and furniture.

"You know, if you want me to move in after school, you're going to have to clean this place up," Neville said, handing over a folded copy of the Daily Prophet to Harry, who took it with a chuckle.

"Good luck in getting me to do that."

Harry looked over the front page and gave a hum.

"Sirius Black escapes Azkaban," he read, then snorted. "So much for inescapable..."

"I hear he's some lunatic mass-murderer who was Voldemort's greatest supporter," Neville said as he looked around the room, his eyes landing on a book on Harry's couch. "Oh, you bought my book? What did you think?"

"Seeing things from your perspective... it was interesting," Harry said, nodding slowly. "I hardly even got a copy."

"It's your name," Neville said with a chuckle. "If there's a book with your name on it, everyone wants it, that's what the publisher said."

"People need to stop concerning themselves with my life," Harry said, grabbing his pipe and lighting it, "and start focusing on their own."

"Was that a jab at me?" Neville asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Was it?" Harry asked enigmatically, doing the same.

BLACK STILL AT LARGE

Sirius Black, possibly the most infamous prisoner

ever to be held in Azkaban fortress, is still eluding

capture, the Ministry of Magic confirmed today.

"We are doing all we can to recapture Black,"

said the Minister of Magic, Cornelius Fudge, this

morning, "and we beg the magical community to

remain calm."

Fudge has been criticized by some members of

the International Federation of Warlocks for informing

the Muggle Prime Minister of the crisis.

"Well, really, I had to, don't you know," said an

irritable Fudge. "Black is mad. He's a danger to

anyone who crosses him, magic or Muggle. I have

the Prime Minister's assurance that he will not

breathe a word of Black's true identity to anyone.

And let's face it — who'd believe him if he did?"

While Muggles have been told that Black is carrying

a gun (a kind of metal wand that Muggles use

to kill each other), the magical community lives in

fear of a massacre like that of twelve years ago, when

Black murdered thirteen people with a single curse.

Harry folded his newspaper as he sat in the Leaky Cauldron, eating dinner. Sitting across from him was Neville, who had once more visited him, something that happened much more frequently now that Harry had his own place.

"You know what I find interesting?" Harry asked with a chuckle as he put away the paper and started cutting into his steak. "If this man is so insane, why has he not killed anyone since he escaped?"

"Because he's on the run?" Neville suggested, and Harry laughed.

"And yet no one has so much as seen him yet. No, I think there's more to Sirius Black than meets the eye."

"Harry, my boy! There you are!"

There was suddenly a lot of noise as the Minister of Magic himself, Cornelius Fudge, stepped into the Leaky Cauldron. Unlike the last time Harry saw him, Fudge now wore a pinstriped cloak over a bottle green suit. He still wore that horrible, lime green bowler hat, though.

"Minister Fudge," Harry greeted as both he and Neville stood up. He extended a hand, which the Minister shook with a brilliant smile, worthy of Lockhart.

"Harry, it is so nice to finally meet you in person, especially after that interesting read that your friend here wrote, if I'm not very much mistaken?"

"Neville Longbottom, sir," Neville greeted, shaking the mans hand with a smile.

"Please, sit down, Minister," Harry said, and all three sat down. "Lunch?"

"I have already eaten, thank you," Fudge said. "Now, Harry, I don't believe we have ever been properly introduced. As you know, my name is Cornelius Fudge, and I am the Minister of Magic. I have come here to ask you not to wander around too much during your summer holiday."

Harry's eyebrow slowly rose. "And this has absolutely nothing to do with Sirius Black, I suppose?"

Suddenly, Fudge looked very awkward, like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

"Well, yes, obviously, er, it is very important that you do not leave Diagon Alley due to the fact that Sirius Black is on the loose. He is a raving lunatic, a killer."

"But I'm not under that great a threat, am I, Minister? Especially with the three guards you have following me around."

Fudge flinched at that, and Harry smiled brightly.

"Minister, please, do not take me for an amateur. The hag behind me, the tall wizard at the bar, and the man in that corner have been following me around all day. Certainly, they never look the same, but the way they walk gives them away. You believe me to be targeted by black, and I suspect you won't tell me why?"

"I think..." Fudge fiddled with his bowler hat. "I think that it's best if you do not find out about that, Harry. It's for your own good."

He reached into his pocket and took out a gold watch, giving a hum.

"Well, I must be off, have another appointment. It was very nice to meet you both. Keep writing, Mr. Longbottom."

With that, Fudge nodded to them both, and then stood up, walking off.

"Well, wasn't that interesting?" Harry mumbled to himself, smiling.

"Do they train you to appear to be made of stone, or are you self-taught in the art?" Harry asked curiously as he sat in the back of a Ministry-issued car, which had been assigned to take Harry to King's Cross station. The driver indeed looked like he was made of stone, never even twitching, although Harry could tell that he was very nervous, probably because he had been assigned to protect Harry Potter.

"Sorry, sir," the man spoke, not even glancing at Harry in the rearview mirror, keeping his eyes on the road. "Just a little nervous."

"Not a problem, really," Harry said with a shrug. "Just feels like you're taking me to court is all."

The car appeared ordinary on the outside, but it had been magicked to be larger and much more comfortable on the inside, and it was capable of sliding through gaps any normal car couldn't have managed. They reached King's Cross with twenty minutes to spare. The Ministry driver found Harry a trolley, unloaded his trunk, touched his hat in salute to Harry, and drove away, somehow managing to jump to the head of an unmoving line at the traffic lights.

Harry casually strolled toward the barrier between platforms nine and ten, gazing interestedly at the InterCity 125 that had just arrived at platform nine, then casually leaned against the barrier.

Once more, he found himself on platform nine and three-quarters and looked up to see the Hogwarts Express, looking beautiful as always.

Unlike the other times Harry was there, however, one part of the crowd was shouting loudly, holding quills and books up in the air, books that Harry recognized as Harry Potter and the Man with Two Faces. Pushing through the crowd, signing any book he could, was none other than Neville, who gave a relieved smile as he rushed over with his trolley.

"Hey, Harry! Where's Hermione?"

"Probably on the train," Harry said with a shrug. "I haven't seen her yet."

Only one compartment was near empty, and Harry and Neville pulled their trunks into it, hefting them up on the luggage racks. Sitting in a corner by the window was a man fast asleep. The Hogwarts Express was usually reserved for students, and they had never seen an adult there before, except for the witch who pushed the food cart.

The stranger was wearing an extremely shabby set of wizard's robes that had been darned in several places. He looked ill and exhausted. Though still quite young, his light brown hair was flecked with gray.

"Who do you reckon he is?" Neville asked as they sat down and slid the door shut, taking the seats farthest away from the window.

"Professor R. J. Lupin," Harry said at once.

"How did you-" Neville asked, and then looked up. "Ah, it's written on his case."

"Very good, Neville," Harry said with a smile, putting his pipe in his mouth and taking out a matchbox. Then, however, he glanced at Lupin, and pocketed the matchbox again, deciding to smoke later.

"I'm amazed Dumbledore can still get Defense Against the Dark Arts teachers," Neville said with a chuckle. "I hope this guy is up to it. He looks like one good hex could finish him off, doesn't he?"

"That he does," Harry said with a nod, looking the man over.

About an hour after the train had started moving, Hermione came into the compartment, lugging her trunk behind her and holding the basket of her new big, pansy-faced, bandy-legged, ginger-colored cat. Harry and Neville quickly got to their feet to get both trunk and basket up on the luggage rack.

"So, what are we talking about?" Hermione asked, sitting down next to Neville.

"We weren't really talking about anything, but now that you asked, I should inform you that the Ministry believes that Sirius Black is coming after me."

Immediately, Hermione clapped her hands over her mouth. Then, she lowered them to say, "Sirius Black escaped to come after you? Oh, Harry... You'll have to be really, really careful. Don't go looking for trouble, Harry..."

"But I like looking for trouble," Harry said with a smile. "If this man is skilled enough to sneak into the safest place in Europe, then he's a mystery worthy of my skills."

"Harry believes something's wrong about the stories of Black," Neville informed the puzzled Hermione.

"He just doesn't look like the man everyone thinks he is. His eyes tell many tales, but none of them are murder stories."

The Hogwarts Express moved steadily north and the scenery outside the window became wilder and darker while the clouds overhead thickened. People were chasing backward and forward past the door of their compartment. Crookshanks the cat, who had been let out of his basket, had now settled in Harry's lap, snoozing peacefully.

At one o'clock, the plump witch with the food cart arrived at the compartment door.

"D'you think we should wake him up?" Neville asked awkwardly, nodding toward Professor Lupin. "He looks like he could do with some food."

Hermione approached Professor Lupin cautiously.

"Er... Professor?" she said. "Excuse me, Professor?"

He didn't move.

"Don't worry, dear," the witch said as she handed Harry a large stack of chocolate, along with a jar of green olives. Harry immediately opened it and took a toothpick out of his pocket, spearing an olive with it. "If he's hungry when he wakes, I'll be up front with the driver."

"If it wasn't for the fact that we can see him breathing, I'd think he was dead," Neville said with a small chuckle as he stared at the man.

He might not be very good company, but Professor Lupin's presence in their compartment had its uses. Midafternoon, just as it had started to rain, blurring the rolling hills outside the window, they heard footsteps in the corridor again, and their three least favorite people appeared at the door: Draco Malfoy, flanked by his cronies, Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle.

"Well, look who it is," Malfoy said in his usual lazy drawl, pulling open the compartment door. "Potty and the Bigbottom."

Crabbe and Goyle chuckled trollishly. Neville slowly raised an eyebrow and looked at Harry, who chuckled softly, chewing on his pipe.

"Your verbal assaults are devastating as always, Malfoy," he drawled in amusement. His muscles tightened, ready for a fight, but just then, Professor Lupin gave a snort.

"Who's that?" Malfoy asked, taking an automatic step backward as he spotted Lupin.

"New teacher," Harry said. "What were you saying, Malfoy?"

Malfoy's pale eyes narrowed. He wasn't fool enough to pick a fight right under a teacher's nose.

"C'mon," he muttered resentfully to Crabbe and Goyle, and they disappeared.

"Thank Merlin we chose the compartment with the new teacher in it," Neville said with a sigh of relief. "Fighting is fun and all, but I don't want to walk into the Great Hall with my face bruised."

"Fighting is not fun!" Hermione said, glaring at the two of them. Harry ignored her glare, and instead took out his violin, playing a soft tune.

The rain thickened as the train sped yet farther north. The windows were now a solid, shimmering gray, which gradually darkened until lanterns flickered into life all along the corridors and over the luggage racks. The train rattled, the rain hammered, the wind roared, but still, Professor Lupin slept.

"We must be nearly there," Neville said, leaning forward to look past Professor Lupin at the now completely black window.

The words had hardly left him when the train started to slow down.

"That's strange..." Neville said, fishing a watch out of his waistcoat. "We can't be there yet... I said soon..."

"Then the question is," Harry said, putting down his violin, "why are we stopping?"

The train was getting slower and slower. As the noise of the pistons fell away, the wind and rain sounded louder than ever against the windows.

Harry, who was nearest the door, got up to look into the corridor. All along the carriage, heads were sticking curiously out of their compartments.

The train came to a stop with a jolt, and distant thuds and bangs told them that luggage had fallen out of the racks. Then, without warning, all the lamps went out and they were plunged into total darkness.

"What's going on?" Neville's voice asked from behind Harry.

"Ouch!" Hermione gasped. "Harry, that was my foot!"

"Well, I'm sorry for not having the eyes of a cat..." Harry muttered as he felt his way back to his seat.

"Have we broken down?" Neville asked, and Harry saw his outline wiping a patch clean on the window and peering out. "Hey, there's something moving out there... I think people are coming aboard..."

"I'm going to go ask the driver what's going on," came Hermione's voice, but Harry immediately lashed out, grabbing her wrist as he felt her pass him.

"Wh-"

"Don't," Harry ordered quietly. "Something doesn't feel right."

They heard the door slide open, followed by a thud and two loud squeals of pain.

"Who's that?"

"Who's that?"

"Ginny?"

"Hermione?"

"What are you doing?"

"I was looking for Ron..."

"Come in and sit down..."

"Not here!" Harry said hurriedly. "I'm here!"

"Ouch!" Neville yelped.

"Quiet!" a hoarse voice said suddenly.

Professor Lupin appeared to have stopped faking sleep at last. Harry could hear movement in his corner, as everyone had fallen silent.

There was a soft, crackling noise, and a shivering light filled the compartment. Professor Lupin appeared to be holding a handful of flames. They illuminated his tired, gray face, but his eyes looked alert and wary.

"Stay where you are," he said in the same hoarse voice, and he slowly got to his feet with his handful of fire held out in front of him.

But the door slid open before Lupin could reach it.

Standing in the doorway, illuminated by the shivering flames in Lupin's hand, was a cloaked figure that towered to the ceiling. Its face was completely hidden beneath its hood. Harry's eyes darted downward, and what he saw made his stomach contract. There was a hand protruding from the cloak and it was glistening, grayish, slimy-looking, and scabbed, like something dead that had decayed in water...

But it was visible only for a split second. As if the creature beneath the cloak sensed Harry's gaze, the hand was suddenly withdrawn within the folds of its black cloak.

And then, the thing beneath the hood, the Dementor, if Harry remembered correctly, drew a long, slow, rattling breath, as though it were trying to suck something more than air from its surroundings.

An intense cold swept over them all. Harry felt his own breath catch in his chest. The cold went deeper than his skin. It was inside his chest, it was inside his very heart...

Harry's eyes rolled up into his head. He couldn't see. He was drowning in cold. There was a rushing in his ears as though of water. He was being dragged downward, the roaring growing louder...

And then, from far away, he heard screaming, terrible, terrified, pleading screams. He wanted to help whoever it was, he tried to move his arms, but couldn't... a thick white fog was swirling around him, inside him...

"Harry! Harry! Are you alright?"

Someone was slapping his face.

"Wh-What?"

Harry opened his eyes. There were lanterns above him, and the floor was shaking. The Hogwarts Express was moving again and the lights had come back on. He seemed to have slid out of his seat onto the floor. Neville and Hermione were kneeling next to him, and above them, he could see Professor Lupin watching. Harry felt very sick. When he put his hand to rub his eyes, he felt cold sweat on his face.

Neville and Hermione heaved him back onto his seat.

"Are you okay?" Neville asked nervously.

"Yeah..." Harry said, quickly looking around. The dementor had vanished. "What happened? Who screamed?"

"No one screamed," Neville said. He was shaking slightly. The dementor's visit must have shaken him badly, but not as badly as Harry. He recognized the voice, yet at the same time didn't. An image flashed before his eyes, a mirror, with two people standing behind him in his reflection. People he didn't recognize, but at the same time knew right away who they were.

"I must have..." Harry raised a hand up to rest his face in his hand. "I must have remembered something, that's all..."

A loud snap made them all jump. Professor Lupin was breaking an enormous slab of chocolate into pieces.

"Here," he said to Harry, handing him a particularly large piece. "Eat it. It'll help."

Harry took the chocolate, but didn't eat it.

"What was a dementor doing on this train?" Harry asked Lupin, who looked even more tired than he had before.

"Searching for Sirius Black, no doubt," he said and crumpled up the empty chocolate wrapper, putting it in his pocket. "Eat," he repeated, nodding to the chocolate in Harry's hand. "It'll help. I need to speak to the driver, excuse me..."

He strolled past Harry and disappeared. Harry hummed to himself.

"Of course, they can't be happy that one of their prisoners managed to escape," he reasoned, nodding more to himself than to the others. "So, what happened while I was out of it?"

"Well, the dementor stood there and looked around, and you... you..." Hermione trailed off.

"I thought you were having a fit or something," a still shaken-looking Neville said, swallowing. "You went sort of rigid and fell out of your seat and started twitching..."

"And Professor Lupin stepped over you, and walked toward the dementor and pulled out his wand," Hermione explained, "and he said, 'None of us is hiding Sirius Black under our cloaks. Go.' But the dementor didn't move, so Lupin muttered something, and a silvery thing shot out of his want at it, and it turned around and sort of glided away. I think it was the Patronus Charm."

"It was horrible," Neville muttered. "Did you feel how cold it got when it came in? I felt weird, like I'd never be cheerful again..."

Harry felt weak and shivery, as though he were recovering from a bad bout of flu... Before he had time to contemplate on that, however, Professor Lupin came back. He paused as he entered, looked around, and said, with a small smile, "I haven't poisoned that chocolate, you know..."

Harry took a bite and to his great surprise felt warmth spread suddenly to the tips of his fingers and toes.

"We'll be at Hogwarts in ten minutes," Professor Lupin said. "Are you alright, Harry?"

Harry didn't ask how Professor Lupin knew his name.

"I've seen better days, but I could be worse," Harry said with a smile, reaching down to the floor and picking up his pipe, which had apparently fallen out of his mouth when he collapsed.

They didn't talk much during the remainder of the journey, except that Neville had managed to score high enough in his subjects to take Transfiguration, Potions, Charms, Herbology, and Defense Against the Dark Arts, which would allow him to become a Healer.

At long last, the train stopped at Hogsmeade station, and there was a great scramble to get outside. Owls hooted, cats meowed, and toads croaked everywhere. It was freezing on the tiny platform. Rain was driving down in icy sheets.

"First' years this way!" a familiar voice called. Harry, Neville and Hermione turned and saw the gigantic outline of Hagrid at the other end of the platform, beckoning the terrified-looking new students forward for their traditional journey across the lake.

"Alrigh', you three?" Hagrid yelled over the heads of the crowd. They waved at him, but had no chance to speak to him because the mass of people around them was shunting them away along the platform. Harry, Neville, and Hermione followed the rest of the school along the platform and out onto the rough mud track, where the horse-less stagecoaches waited. They climbed inside an empty one, and allowed it to take them to the school.

As the carriage trundled toward the magnificent iron gates, Harry saw two more towering, hooded dementors, standing guard on either side. A wave of cold sickness threatened to engulf him again. He leaned back into the lumpy seat and closed his eyes until they had passed the gate. At last, the carriage swayed to a halt, and Harry got out with his friends.

The door into the Great Hall stood open at the right. Harry followed the crowd toward it, but had barely glimpsed the enchanted ceiling, which was black and cloudy tonight, when a voice called, "Potter! I'd like a word!"

Harry turned around, surprised. Professor McGonagall was calling over the heads of the crowd. Harry fought his way over to her.

"There's no need to look so worried. I just want a word in my office," she said mistaking the curious look on Harry's face for worry. "Move along there, Granger, Longbottom."

Neville and Hermione stared as Professor McGonagall ushered Harry away from the chattering crowd. He accompanied her across the entrance hall, up the marble staircase, and along a corridor.

Once they were in her office, a small room with a large, welcoming fire, Professor McGonagall motioned Harry to sit down. She settled herself behind her desk and said abruptly, "Professor Lupin sent an owl ahead to say that you were taken ill on the train, Potter."

Before Harry could reply, there was a soft knock on the door and Madam Pomfrey, the nurse, came bustling in.

Harry sighed. It was bad enough that he'd passed out, or whatever he had done, without everyone making all this fuss.

"I'm fine," he said, "I don't need anything-"

"Oh, it's you, is it?" Madam Pomfrey asked, ignoring this and bending down to stare closely at him. "I suppose you've been doing something dangerous again?"

"It was a dementor, Poppy," Professor McGonagall said.

They exchanged a dark look, and Madam Pomfrey clucked disapprovingly.

"Setting dementors around a school," she muttered, pushing back Harry's hair and feeling his forehead. "He won't be the last one who collapses. Yes, he's all clammy. Terrible things, they are, and the effect they have on people who are already delicate-"

"Don't touch!" Harry said crossly, jerking away from her. "I don't need any assistance, Nanny!" he hissed.

"Of course you don't," Madam Pomfrey said absentmindedly, now taking his pulse.

"What does he need?" Professor McGonagall asked crisply. "Bed rest? Should he perhaps spend tonight in the hospital wing?"

"I'm fine!" Harry said, jumping up. "I don't need any bed rest, and I don't want to spend the night in the hospital wing! Professor Lupin was already kind enough to give me some chocolate, and that worked wonders. I don't need anything else, Nanny."

"Did he, now?" Madam Pomfrey asked approvingly. "So we've finally got a Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher who knows his remedies?"

"Are you sure you feel all right, Potter?" Professor McGonagall asked sharply.

"Yes, Professor," Harry said.

"Very well. Then we can go down to the feast together."

Harry went back into the corridor with Madam Pomfrey, who left for the hospital wing, muttering to herself, and Professor McGonagall. The wo of them made their way back down the marble staircase to the Great Hall.

It was a sea of pointed black hats. Each of the long House tables was lined with students, their faces glimmering by the light of thousands of candles, which were floating over the tables in midair. Professor Flitwick was carrying an ancient hat and a three-legged stool out of the hall. Apparently, he had missed the Sorting.

Professor McGonagall strode off toward her empty seat at the staff table, and Harry set off in the other direction, as quietly as possible, toward the Gryffindor table. People looked around at him as he passed along the back of the hall, and a few of them pointed at Harry. Had the story of his collapsing in front of the dementor traveled that fast?

He sat down between Neville and Hermione, who had saved him a seat.

"What was all that about?" Neville muttered to Harry.

Harry started to explain in a whisper, but at that moment the headmaster stood up to speak, and he broke off.

Professor Dumbledore, though very old, always gave an impression of great energy. He was often described as the greatest wizard of the age, but that wasn't why Harry respected him. You couldn't help trusting Albus Dumbledore, and as Harry watched him beaming around at the students, he felt really calm for the first time since the dementor had entered the train compartment.

"Welcome!" Dumbledore said, the candlelight shimmering on his beard. "Welcome to another year at Hogwarts! I have a few things to say to you all, and as one of them is very serious, I think it best to get it out of the way before you become befuddled by our excellent feast..."

Dumbledore cleared his throat and continued, "As you will all be aware after their search of the Hogwarts Express, our school is presently playing host to some of the dementors of Azkaban, who are here on Ministry of Magic business."

He paused, and Harry quickly deduced that Dumbledore was not at all happy with the dementors guarding the school.

"They are stationed at every entrance to the grounds," Dumbledore continued, "and while they are with us, I must make it plain that nobody is to leave school without permission. Dementors are not to be fooled by tricks or disguises, or even Invisibility Cloaks," he added blandly, and Harry and Neville glanced at each other, knowing that he meant the Invisibility Cloak he had given Harry in his first year. "It is not in the nature of a dementor to understand pleading or excuses. I therefore warn each and every one of you to give them no reason to harm you. I look to the prefects, and our new Head Boy and Girl, to make sure that no student runs afoul of the dementors," he said.

Dumbledore paused again. He looked very seriously around the hall, and nobody moved or made a sound.

"On a happier note," he continued, "I am pleased to welcome two new teachers to our ranks this year. First, Professor Lupin, who has kindly consented to fill the post of Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher."

There was some scattered, rather unenthusiastic applause.

Only those who had been in the compartment on the train with Professor Lupin clapped hard, Harry among them. Professor Lupin looked particularly shabby next to all the other teachers in their best robes.

"Look at Snape!" Neville hissed in Harry's ear.

Snape was staring along the staff table at Professor Lupin. It was common knowledge that Snape wanted the Defense Against the Dark Arts job, but even Harry, who really disliked Snape, was startled at the expression twisting his thin, sallow face. It was beyond anger: it was loathing. Harry knew that expression only too well. It was the look Snape wore every time he set eyes on Harry.

"As to our second new appointment," Dumbledore continued as the lukewarm applause for Professor Lupin died away. "Well, I am sorry to tell you that Professor Kettleburn, our Care of Magical Creatures teacher, retired at the end of last year in order to enjoy more time with his remaining limbs. However, I am delighted to say that his place will be filled by none other than Rubeus Hagrid, who has agreed to take on this teaching job in addition to his gamekeeping duties."

Harry, Neville, and Hermione stared at one another, stunned. Then they joined in with the applause, which was tumultuous at the Gryffindor table in particular. Harry leaned forward to see Hagrid, who was ruby red in the face and staring down at his enormous hands, his wide grin hidden in the tangle of his black beard.

"We should've known!" Neville roared, pounding the table. "Who else would have assigned us a biting book?"

Harry, Neville, and Hermione were the last to stop clapping, and as Professor Dumbledore started speaking again, they saw that Hagrid was wiping his eyes on the tablecloth.

"Well, I think that's everything of importance," Dumbledore said. "Let the feast begin!"

The golden plates and goblets before them filled suddenly with food and drink. Harry, suddenly ravenous, helped himself to everything he could reach and began to eat.

It was a delicious feast. The hall echoed with talk, laughter, and the clatter of knives and forks. Harry, Neville, and Hermione, however, were eager for it to finish so that they could talk to Hagrid. They knew how much being made a teacher would mean to him. Hagrid wasn't a fully qualified wizard, as he had been expelled from Hogwarts in his third year for a crime he had not committed. It had been Harry, Neville, and Hermione who had cleared Hagrid's name last year.

At long last, when the last morsels of pumpkin tart had melted from the golden platters, Dumbledore gave the word that it was time for them all to go to bed, and they got their chance.

"Congratulations, Hagrid!" Hermione squealed as they reached the teachers' table.

"All down ter you three," Hagrid said, wiping his shining face on his napkin as he looked up at them. "Can' believe it... great man, Dumbledore... came straight down to me hut after Professor Kettleburn said he'd had enough... It's what I always wanted..."

Overcome with emotion, he buried his face in his napkin, and Professor McGonagall shooed them away.

Harry and Neville joined the Gryffindors streaming up the marble staircase and, very tired now, while Hermione gathered the first years, along more corridors, up more and more stairs, to the hidden entrance to Gryffindor Tower, where the large portrait of the Fat Lady asked them, "Password?"

"Fortuna Major," Neville said, then added at Harry's inquisitive glance, "Hermione told me."

Through the portrait hole and across the common room, the girls and boys divided toward their separate staircases. Harry climbed the spiral stair with no thought in his head except how glad he was to be back. They reached their familiar, circular dormitory with its five four-poster beds, and Harry, looking around, felt he was home at last.

"I love being a sixth year," Neville said happily as the trio climbed out of the portrait hole the following morning. "We're going to be getting free time this year. Whole periods when I can just sit up here, and write in peace with a warm cup of tea."

"Most of that time will probably be spent studying," Harry said with a shrug as they set off down the corridor.

"But not today," Neville said happily. "Today, I will start working on Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets!"

"Another best-seller, no doubt," Hermione said, patting Neville on the shoulder proudly. "Hold it!" she said suddenly, throwing out an arm and halting a passing fourth year, who was attempting to push past her with a lime-green disk clutched tightly in his hand. "Fanged Frisbees are banned, hand it over," she told him sternly. The scowling boy handed over the snarling Frisbee, ducked under her arm, and took off after his friends.

"Talk about taking her duties seriously," Neville muttered to Harry, who chuckled and took out his pipe as they watched Hermione head off toward Filch's office to hand over the Frisbee.

The ceiling of the Great Hall was gray and gloomy as they entered. While they tucked into porridge and egg and bacon, Harry and Neville discussed what to do after their seventh year, solidifying their plans of having Neville move in with Harry, to become something of a biographer of Harry's. Hermione joined them shortly after, and once they'd eaten, they remained in their places, awaiting Professor McGonagall's descent from the staff table. The distribution of class schedules was more complicated than usual this year, for Professor McGonagall needed to confirm that everybody had achieved the necessary OWL grades to continue with their chosen NEWTs.

Hermione was immediately cleared to continue with Charms, Defense Against the Dark Arts, Transfiguration, Herbology, Arithmancy, Ancient Runes, and Potions, and shot off to a first-period Ancient Runes class without further ado. Then came Neville.

"Longbottom, I was very pleased to see your E in Transfiguration," she told Neville, who smiled proudly. "Transfiguration, Herbology, Charms, and Defence Against the Dark Arts, Healer course. You're clear for all of them."

She tapped the empty schedule with her wand, which was immediately filled with classes. Then, she moved on to Harry.

"Potter, 'Outstanding' in everything, I see. And you've chosen to continue it all?"

Harry shrugged. "One can never have too much knowledge, Professor," he reasoned with a smile. He took the schedule handed to him, and headed off to his first-period Ancient Runes class with Hermione.

He was pleased to get out of the castle after lunch. The sky had cleared up slightly, now a pale gray, and the grass was springy and damp as he and Neville set off for their first Care of Magical Creatures class with Hagrid.

"Acromantula," Neville guessed as they went down the sloping lawns to Hagrid's hut on the edge of the Forbidden Forest. "Since we never took his advice last year.

"Not even Hagrid would show off an acromantula to a group of students," Harry said, shaking his head. "No, it will probably be something spectacular, a big creature, but something that will impress us, but not scare us."

Hagrid was waiting for his class at the door of his hut. He stood in his moleskin overcoat, with Fang at his heels, looking impatient to start.

"C'mon, now, get a move on!" he called as the class approached. "Got a real treat for yeh today! Was gonna show 'em to the third years, but I decided I couldn' wait! Great lesson comin' up! Everyone here? Right, follow me!"

For one nasty moment, Harry thought that he might have been wrong, and Hagrid was going to lead them into the forest, but Hagrid strolled off around the edge of the trees, and five minutes later, they found themselves outside a kind of paddock. There was nothing in there.

"Everyone gather 'round the fence here!" he called. "That's it... make sure yeh can see... now, firs' thing yeh'll want ter do is open yer books-"

"Er, Hagrid," Neville said hesitantly, holding up his Monster Book of Monsters, which was bound shut with a belt. "How, exactly, do we do that?"

"Hasn'... hasn' anyone bin able ter open their books?" Hagrid asked, looking crestfallen.

The class shook their heads.

"Yeh've got ter stroke 'em," Hagrid said, as though this was the most obvious thing in the world. "Look..."

He took Neville's copy and undid the belt. The book tried to bite, but Hagrid ran a giant forefinger down its spine, and the book shivered, and then fell open and lay quiet in his hand.

"Righ' then," Hagrid said, handing the book back to Neville as everyone started following his example. "Yeh've got yet books, an' now yeh need the Magical Creatures. Now, wait righ' there, an' I'll go an' get 'em. Hang on..."

He strode away from them into the forest and out of sight.

"Why does someone make a book like this?" Harry asked as he looked through his book. "I mean, a biting book can't be a best-seller," he said, making Neville chuckle.

"Oooooooh!" Lavender Brown squealed, pointing toward the opposite side of the paddock.

Trotting toward them were a dozen of very bizarre creatures. They had the bodies, hind legs, and tails of horses, but the front legs, wings, and heads of what seemed to be giant eagles, with cruel, steel-colored beaks and large, brilliantly orange eyes. The talons on their front legs were half a foot long and deadly looking. Each of the beasts had a thick leather collar around its neck, which was attached to a long chain, and the ends of all of these were held in the vast hands of Hagrid, who came jogging into the paddock behind the creatures.

"Gee up, there!" he roared, shaking the chains and urging the creatures toward the fence where the class stood. Everyone drew back slightly as Hagrid reached them and tethered the creatures to the fence.

"Hippogriffs!" Hagrid roared happily, waving a hand at them. "Beau'iful, aren' they?"

Harry could see what Hagrid meant this time. They were quite beautiful, not to mention majestic, all of them holding their heads high proudly.

"So," Hagrid said, rubbing his hands together and beaming around, while Harry moved closer to the fence to study the creatures, "if yeh wan' ter come a bit nearer, like Harry..."

No one seemed to want to. Neville, however, cautiously moved over to the fence to stand next to Harry.

"Now, firs' thing yeh gotta know abou' hippogriffs is, they're proud," Hagrid explained. "Easily offended, hippogriffs are. Don't ever insult one, 'cause it might be the last thing yeh do. Yeh always wait fer the hippogriff ter make the firs' move," he continued. "It's polite, see? Yeh walk toward him, and yeh bow, an' yeh wait. If he bows back, yeh're allowed ter touch him. If he doesn' bow, then get away from him sharpish, 'cause those talons hurt.

"So, who wants ter go first?"

Most of the class back farther away in answer, but Harry immediately raised his hand and climbed over the paddock fence excitedly.

"Good man, Harry!" Hagrid roared in approval. "Right then... let's see how yeh get on with Buckbeak."

He untied one of the chains, pulled a gray hippogriff away from its fellows, and slipped off its leather collar. The class on the other side of the paddock seemed to be holding its breath.

"Easy, now, Harry," Hagrid said quietly. "Yeh've got eye contact, now try not ter blink... Hippogriffs don' trust yeh if yeh blink too much."

Being someone who spent hours staring at nothing, Harry had no problem keeping from blinking as Buckbeak turned his great, sharp head and stared at Harry with one fierce, orange eye.

"Tha's it," Hagrid said. "Tha's it, Harry... now, bow..."

Harry did as he was told and gave a short bow, then looked up.

The hippogriff was still staring haughtily at him. It didn't move.

"Ah," Hagrid said, sounding worried. "Right... back away, now, Harry, easy does it..."

But then, to Harry's enormous surprise, the hippogriff suddenly bent its scaly front knees and sank into what was an unmistakable bow.

"Well done, Harry!" Hagrid said, ecstatic. "Right, yeh can touch him! Pat his beak, go on!"

Harry moved slowly toward the hippogriff and reached out toward it. He patted the beak several times, and the hippogriff closed its eyes lazily, as though enjoying it.

The class broke into applause, and Harry could see Neville shaking his head in disbelief.

"Righ' then, Harry," Hagrid said. "I reckon he migh' let yeh ride him!"

Harry didn't even have time to open his mouth to protest, before Hagrid had grabbed him and hoisted him up onto the hippogriff.

"Yeh just put yer legs here, behind the wing joints," Hagrid said, "an' mind yeh don' pull any of his feathers out, he won' like that..."

Harry wasn't sure where to hold on as he sat on Buckbeak. Everything in front of him was covered in feathers.

"Go on, then!" Hagrid roared, slapping the hippogriff's hindquarters.

Without warning, twelve-foot wings flapped open on either side of Harry. He just had time to seize the hippogriff around the neck before he was soaring upward. It was nothing like a broomstick, but so much better. He felt safer on the wider, more secure back of the hippogriff than on a broom. Once he got used to it, managing to get a firm grip without risking pulling out any feathers, it was actually quite enjoyable, rocking backward and forward as the hindquarters of the hippogriff rose and fell with its wings.

Buckbeak flew him once around the paddock and then headed back to the ground. Harry leaned back as the smooth neck lowered, feeling like he was going to slip over the beak, then felt a heavy thud as the four ill-assorted feet hit the ground. He just managed to hold on and push himself straight again.

"Good work, Harry!" Hagrid roared as everyone cheered. "Okay, who else wants a go?"

Emboldened by Harry's success, the rest of the class climbed cautiously into the paddock. Hagrid untied the hippogriffs one by one, and soon people were bowing nervously, all over the paddock. Neville ran repeatedly backward from his, which didn't seem to want to bend its knees.

All in all, it was a good day.

"Nonverbal magic," Professor Lupin said, leaning against the front of his desk as he looked over his class. "Can anyone tell me the advantage of a nonverbal spell?"

Both Harry and Hermione's hands shot into the air. Professor Lupin pointed at Hermione, who immediately answered, "Your adversary has no warning about what kind of magic you're about to perform, which gives you a split-second advantage."

Professor Lupin gave a very kind smile.

"Couldn't have said it better myself, Hermione. Five points to Gryffindor," he said, and Hermione beamed. "Yes, those who progress to using magic without shouting incantations gain an element of surprise in their spell-casting, unless...?"

This time, Harry's hand was the only one that rose, and Professor Lupin nodded at him.

"Unless the opponent is a Legilimens."

"Very good, Harry, very good. Another five points for Gryffindor. Legilimency, and Occlumency, the art of invading, and protecting the mind respectively, two subjects we will be covering later in the year. For now, however, we will be focusing on nonverbal magic. You will divide into pairs," Professor Lupin said. "One partner will attempt to jinx the other without speaking, and the other will attempt to repel the jinx in equal silence. Now, don't worry if you can't do it on your first try. It requires concentration and mind power which can be very hard to build. You may begin."

A reasonable amount of cheating ensued as everyone started practicing. Many were merely whispering the incantation instead of saying it out loud. Typically, Hermione managed to repeal Ron Weasley's muttered Jelly-Legs Jinx without uttering a single word, a feat that earned her twenty points from Professor Lupin.

Unbeknownst to Hermione, however, Harry, who had paired up with Neville, had tutored Neville in nonverbal magic for a long time now, so they earned themselves another twenty-five points when they batted Harry's Jelly-Legs Jinx back and forth between each other, as if playing tennis.

"Don't feel downcast, everyone!" Lupin said when the class was over. In the end, only Harry, Neville, and Hermione had managed to use nonverbal spells. "This is a very hard thing to do, but I think you will do alright if you remember the three magic words: practice, practice, practice!"

"You know, despite his appearance, Professor Lupin is a very competent teacher, very much unlike Lockhart," Harry commented as they left the classroom.

"So, the dirtier they get, the smarter they are?" Neville suggested with a shrug. "In any case, I liked him. He knows what he's talking about, and he knows how to talk to students. He's very much like Professor Brown."

"Harry! Hey, Harry!"

Harry looked around, and saw Colin Creevey hurrying toward him holding a role of parchment.

"For you," he panted, handing it to Harry, who nodded.

"Thanks, Colin," he said as he unrolled the parchment.

Dear Harry,

It would be my pleasure if you would join my at my office for tea this Saturday at 8 P.M. I hope you are enjoying your first week back at school.

Yours sincerely,

Albus Dumbledore

P.S. I enjoy Acid Pops.

"He enjoys Acid Pops?" Neville asked, having read the message as well, looking perplexed.

"It's the password to get past the gargoyle outside his study," Harry said in a low voice. He reached into his pocket and took out his pipe, chewing on it. "I wonder what he could want..."

"Think it's something to do with Black?"

"Maybe, maybe not."

That Saturday, Harry found himself standing in front of the gargoyle on the seventh floor. He spoke the password, and the gargoyle leapt aside. The wall behind it slid apart, and a moving spiral stone staircase was revealed, onto which Harry stepped, so that he was carried in smooth circles up to the door with the brass knocker that led to Dumbledore's office.

Harry knocked.

"Come in," came Dumbledore's voice.

"Good evening, sir," Harry said, walking into the headmaster's office.

"Ah, good evening, Harry. Sit down," Dumbledore said, smiling. "I hope you've had an enjoyable first week back at school?"

"Yes, thanks, sir," Harry said as he took out his pipe. "You don't mind...?"

"Of course not, my boy."

Smiling, Harry lit his pipe.

"So, why did you call me here, sir?" he asked. "I know it wasn't just because you wanted to have tea with me, and judging by the fact that your Pensieve is on your desk, you also have something to show me?"

"Astute as usual, Harry," Dumbledore said, still smiling. "Do you remember, in the Hospital Wing, two years ago, when you asked me the one question I would not answer?"

"Yes, sir," Harry said with a nod.

"I hope you understand, Harry, I cared a great deal about you, ever since you set foot in this school. After all your adventures and mischiefs here, I have come to view you as something akin to family, and therefore I feel it to do more harm than good to keep this from you any longer."

Dumbledore leaned back in his chair and watched his thoughts and memories swirl and drift inside the Pensieve for a moment. Then, with a sigh, he raised his and and prodded the silvery substance with its tip.

A figure rose out of it, draped in shawls, her eyes magnified to enormous size behind her glasses, and she revolved slowly, her feet in the basin. But when Sibyll Trelawney spoke, it was not her usual ethereal, mystic voice, but in a harsh, hoarse tone.

"The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches... Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies... and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not... and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives... The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies..."

The slowly revolving Professor Trelawney sank back into the silver mass below and vanished.

The silence within the office was absolute. Neither Dumbledore nor Harry nor any of the portraits made a sound. Even Fawkes had fallen silent. Then, Harry spoke.

"What was that rubbish?" he asked, puffing on his pipe. Dumbledore's beard twitched.

"That," he said, "was a prophecy, told to me a little more than sixteen years ago, by Sybill Trelawney. It concerns you and Voldemort."

"Nonsense," Harry said, scoffing. "It's full of holes, isn't it? I mean, it doesn't mention what Dark Lord it is, nor which child it is. For instance, Neville's birthday is one day before mine."

"Yes, however, Voldemort only heard the last part of the prophecy, and therefore went after you, and gave you your scar," Dumbledore said, and the dots connected in Harry's head.

"Marking me as his equal and thus fulfilling the prophecy..."

"Very good," Dumbledore praised with a nod. "More than half of the prophecies told in this world go unfulfilled because they go unheard. White, or black?"

"White," Harry answered, looking thoughtful. Dumbledore waved his wand, and from a corner of his office soared a chessboard and two wooden boxes. The boxes opened, revealing a set of white chess pieces, and a set of black pieces. The pieces soared into their places, and Harry immediately reached out, moving his knight. This was Muggle chess, and not wizard chess. Muggle chess was preferred by both Harry and Dumbledore, as they were allowed to move their pieces themselves.

"Voldemort went after your parents and you because he found out about the prophecy. It may not have been about you and him, but he made it so by going after you," Dumbledore explained, moving one of his pawns.

"So that's why he went after me..." Harry mumbled, moving a pawn. "Why didn't you tell me two years ago?"

"I cared too much for you, I'm afraid..." Dumbledore said regretfully. "I cared more for your happiness than you knowing the truth, more for your peace of mind than my plan, more for your life than the lives that might be lost if the plan failed. There you were, in your fourth year, weak from your battle with Voldemort. How could I burden you with more at that point? I felt it better if I told you when you were a bit older.

"Then came last year, and once again you met challenges even grown wizards have never, nor would ever dare to face. Once again, you acquitted yourself beyond my wildest dreams. You did not ask me again, however, why Voldemort had left that mark upon you. We discussed your scar, oh yes... We came very, very close to the subject. Why did I not tell you everything?

"Well, it seemed to me that fifteen was, after all, hardly better than fourteen to receive such information. I allowed you to leave my presence, bloodstained, exhausted, but exhilarated, and if I felt a twinge of unease that I ought, perhaps, have told you then, it was swiftly silenced. You were still so young, you see, and I could not find it in me to spoil that night of triumph..."

Dumbledore sighed heavily and moved another pawn.

"Over the summer, however, I did a lot of thinking. You deserved to know the truth, and looking a little closer, although you may be sixteen in body, you are much older and wiser in mind. I knew then that you can handle it."

"Thank you, sir," Harry said with a nod as he moved another pawn. "But, sir?"

"Yes, Harry?"

"Where does Sirius Black fit into all of this?"

"Sirius?" Dumbledore asked, looking contemplative. "Sirius was... a charming young man when he went to school. He was your father's best friend, you see," he explained, making Harry's eyebrows rise in surprise. "Oh yes, that he was. Never saw one without the other during their days here. Quite the troublemakers, too, much like the two Weasley twins were."

"So, what happened, then, to turn him into the man he is today? What did he do to get sent to Azkaban?"

Dumbledore peered at Harry over his half-moon glasses.

"Are you sure you are ready to hear this, Harry?"

"I'm going to find out either way, sir."

Dumbledore nodded.

"Very well, then... Sirius turned out to be in league with Voldemort, his most valuable spy, I think. When your parents went into hiding, I cast the Fidelius Charm on their house, a Charm I am sure you know about?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good, that saves me a fair bit of time. Your parents made Sirius their Secret-Keeper."

Harry's eyes widened.

"Yes. James told me that Sirius would rather die than tell where they were, that Sirius was planning to go into hiding himself... and yet, I remained worried. I offered to be their Secret-Keeper myself, but James would trust none other than Sirius... They even made Sirius your godfather when you were born..."

"And then Black betrayed him..."

"Do you see now, Harry, why the Ministry and myself believe that Sirius might be coming after you?" Dumbledore asked, and Harry nodded.

"Sirius sent his master to my house, and his master never came back. Obviously, he wants to avenge his master. Either that, or finish what Voldemort started."

"Precisely."

"But how did he end up getting arrested for murdering thirteen Muggles?" Harry inquired curiously. "How did the Ministry find him?"

"Alas, it was not the Ministry of Magic who found Sirius first," Dumbledore said sadly. "You see, it was little Peter Pettigrew, another of James' friends. Maddened by grief, and knowing that Sirius had been the Potters' Secret-Keeper, he went after Sirius himself. He hero-worshiped James and Sirius. He was never quite as talented as them, and always looked up to them. Eye witnesses stated that Peter cornered Sirius, sobbing 'Lily and James, Sirius! How could you?' And then he went for his wand. Well, of course, Sirius was quicker. He blew Peter to smithereens and murdered thirteen Muggles in the process.

"The Hit-Wizards who caught him found him standing in a crater so deep that it had cracked the sewer below. Apparently, he was laughing. All they found of Peter was a finger."

"But no corpse?" Harry asked, and Dumbledore shook his head.

"Oh, Harry, do not go looking for Sirius simply because you feel that there has been a conspiracy of some sort..."

"Something just doesn't add up," Harry said thoughtfully, puffing on his pipe. "An insane mass-murderer, his master gone, his cover blown, standing in a crater... Why didn't he run? Why did he just stand there, waiting for the Hit-Wizards to find him?"

"That, Harry," Dumbledore said, nodding, "is a question I have asked myself many times."


	11. Chapter 11

Neville sat on his bed in the dormitory, watching as Harry stood leaning against the window, pipe in his mouth, staring down at the grounds. He had been staring for four hours now, Neville had kept track. Shaking his head, he went back to working on his next novel.

"I'm bothered, Neville," Harry spoke suddenly, making Neville jump in surprise.

"What?"

"I'm bothered by this..." Harry muttered. "It doesn't make sense... There's something missing here, something that doesn't add up, something... something I can't quite put my finger on..."

"You should stop thinking about mysteries like this and start working on your Arithmancy homework," Neville said, shaking his head.

"Already done."

"Ancient Runes?"

"Done."

"Po-"

"Done it all, Neville," Harry said, interrupting his friend.

"Even the cases?" Neville asked, gesturing for the pile of letters on Harry's bedside table. Harry made a disgruntled noise, which sounded like a cross between a snort and clicking his tongue.

"Trivial matters that were easier to solve than math for beginners..."

Neville didn't see much of his friend the next day, what with Harry taking so many classes and Neville working on his novel, but when he did see him, Harry looked just as contemplative as he had that Sunday evening. He truly was stuck thinking about it, so it came as no surprise when Neville entered the near empty common room, greeted by a horrible noise coming from Harry's violin, which he was scraping on carelessly, appearing deep in thought.

Neville didn't speak. Instead, he just sat down in his usual seat and waited for Harry to finish. It happened surprisingly quickly.

"There was no body," he spoke, suddenly stopping his abusing of the violin. "The curse exploded the street, and it was assumed that the very same spell killed Pettigrew, but if Pettigrew had been exploded, there would have been much more blood splatter, flesh, bone pieces, brain matter, anything, but all they found were tattered robes and a finger..."

Neville had to admit, that sounded a bit suspicious. But...

"Wait a minute," Neville said, staring at Harry oddly. "You're not saying...?"

"Black may not be as guilty as we thought," Harry said with a smile.

"Hey, Harry," Seamus Finnigan said, leaning over to borrow Harry's brass scales during Potions, "have you heard? Daily Prophet this morning... they reckon Sirius Black's been sighted."

"Where?" Harry and Neville asked quickly. On the other side of the table, Malfoy looked up, listening closely.

"Not too far from here," Seamus, who looked excited, said. "It was a Muggle who saw him. 'Course, she didn't really understand. The Muggles think he's just an ordinary criminal, don't they? So she phoned the telephone hot line. By the time the Ministry of Magic got there, he was gone."

"Not too far from here..." Neville repeated, looking significantly at Harry. He turned around and saw Malfoy watching closely. "What, Malfoy?"

Malfoy's eyes were shining malevolently, and they were fixed Harry. He leaned across the table.

"Thinking of trying to catch Black single-handed, Potter?"

"Perhaps," Harry said offhandedly.

Malfoy's thin mouth was curving in a mean smile.

"Of course, if it was me," he said quietly, "I'd have done something before now. I wouldn't be staying in school like a good boy, I'd be out there looking for him."

"And you'd get yourself killed in the process. Go for it," Harry said with a chuckle, which was mimicked by Neville.

Malfoy let out a low, sneering laugh.

"So, you'd rather not risk your neck, eh?" he said. "Want to leave it to the dementors, do you? But if it was me, I'd want revenge. I'd hunt him down myself."

Harry stopped working on his potion and turned to Malfoy, giving him a cold stare.

"I know what you're trying to do, Malfoy, and it's not going to work," Harry said calmly. "Now remember, even though Snape is here, and I'd get detention for a month, I am not above breaking your nose for trying to make me chase after something as petty as revenge."

It was at that point that Malfoy seemed to realize just how far away Crabbe and Goyle were. With one last sneer, he went back to his own potion.

"Can you believe that guy?" Neville asked with a scoff as they were let out of class. "I felt like breaking his face, I was that mad. Trying to rile you up, either thinking you didn't know about Black and your parents, or that you did know and wanted revenge..."

"Malfoy is upset because I am against everything he stands for," Harry said calmly, chewing on his pipe. "My blood is not pure, yet I am better than him at everything, and am much, much smarter than he is. Not to mention, I'm a Parselmouth, something that no doubt has him seething with envy."

Neville smiled and patted Harry on the shoulder. "Hey, the first Hogsmeade weekend is at the end of October. Halloween," he said happily. "I'll treat you to some mead at the Three Broomsticks."

"Alcohol slows the mind," Harry said simply, but Neville wasn't fooled. He knew Harry loved Rosmerta's oak-matured mead just as much as Neville did.

The week passed quickly, and on Sunday, the students were let out of the school, and Neville, Harry, and Hermione immediately set off toward Hogsmeade. Hermione wanted to go look around, like she did every year, but Neville and Harry already had their destination in mind. They headed straight to the Three Broomsticks and took a seat, ordering immediately.

"Now, boys," Madam Rosmerta said as she set down a pint of mead in front of each of the two, "don't drink too much now."

"Don't worry, Rosy," Harry said with a smile. "We won't."

"How can you get away with that?" Neville asked as Rosmerta walked away. At Harry's inquisitive look, he added, "Calling her Rosy. She slaps anyone who does it."

"I asked her if I could," Harry said with a shrug, sipping his mead. "Oh, how I've missed this taste..."

"So, you still believe that Black is innocent?" Neville asked, and Harry nodded.

"Very much so. However, I don't think I have enough data yet to be sure."

"You and your data," Neville said, shaking his head as he sipped his mead as well. "Isn't it annoying at times? This constant search for mysteries, your need for work, and all that?"

"It is... difficult, at times, I admit," Harry said with a nod. "When I have nothing to solve, I tend to go a bit..."

"Crazy?"

"Something like that."

Harry was sitting in a chair in the Gryffindor common room, chewing on his pipe. He'd just solved his twentieth case since school started, earning himself yet another Sickle. He hated this. He managed to solve the cases he got much too easily...

Even the curious case of Remus Lupin had been solved...

"Wait, check?" Harry asked as he looked down at the Muggle chessboard in front of him, a cat sitting across from him. Harry hummed and chewed on his pipe, staring down at the board.

"Clever boy..." After a minute of contemplating, Harry moved his king, glaring at the cat, who must've been at least half-Kneazle. Crookshanks was frightfully intelligent, Harry had noticed. This was Crookshanks', first time playing chess, yet he was slaughtering Harry.

The portrait opened, and Neville and Hermione came climbing into the common room.

"Harry, why weren't you in cla-" Hermione started, but stopped, blinking, when she saw Harry staring hard at Crookshanks, who moved his bishop.

"I was caught up," Harry muttered, furrowing his brow.

"Harry..." Neville mumbled. "Are you playing chess with Crookshanks?"

"Indeed," Harry said, nodding. "He's dangerously good at it." He looked up at Crookshanks, who managed to radiate smugness, even if his facial expression hadn't changed. "I'm beginning to suspect that it's not his first time playing..."

"But Harry... You didn't go to class for this?" Hermione asked as she sat down in the chair Crookshanks was in, after lifting him up, and putting him in her lap.

"I couldn't very well quit, could I?" Harry asked, cautiously moving his knight. Crookshanks, seeming to have expected it, quickly moved his bishop without hesitation, and made a swipe for Harry's king, knocking it over, before jumping out of Hermione's lap and walking off, almost strutting.

"W-Wait!" Harry stuttered, staring down at the chessboard in shock. "This... You... How...?"

Neville chuckled as he sat down in a chair to Harry's right. "Tough luck, mate," he said with a pleasant smile on his face.

The three went through their homework, Harry with a very bored look on his face. His school work just became more and more boring the more he learned about magic. He was fascinated about it when magic was still new to him, but now it was just another part of his everyday life, and was therefore boring.

So, after dinner, Harry and Neville were playing wizard chess, wrapped up in their game, when a voice was heard.

"OY!" came Ron Weasley's roar, and Harry and Neville looked to see him seizing his bag as Crookshanks sank four sets of claws deep inside it and began tearing ferociously. "GET OFF, YOU STUPID ANIMAL!"

Ron tried to pull the bag away from Crookshanks, but Crookshanks clung on, spitting and slashing.

"Ronald, don't hurt him!" Hermione squealed, flying up from her seat. The whole common room was watching as Ron whirled the bag around, Crookshanks still clinging to it, and Ron's pet rat, Scabbers, came flying out of the top.

"CATCH THAT CAT!" Ron yelled as Crookshanks freed himself from the remnants of the bag, sprang over the table, and chased after the terrified Scabbers.

Dean Thomas made a lunge for Crookshanks but missed. Scabbers streaked through twenty pairs of legs and shot beneath an old chest of drawers. Crookshanks skidded to a halt, crouched low on his bandy legs, and started making furious swipes beneath it with his front paw.

Ron and Hermione hurried over. Hermione grabbed Crookshanks around the middle and heaved him away, while Ron threw himself onto his stomach and, with great difficulty, pulled Scabbers out by the tail.

"Look at him!" he said furiously to Hermione, dangling Scabbers in front of her. "He's skin and bone! You keep that cat away from him!"

"Crookshanks doesn't understand it's wrong!" Hermione said, her voice shaking. "All cats chase rats, Ron!"

"There's something funny about that animal!" Ron, who was trying to persuade a frantically wiggling Scabbers back into his pocket, said. "It heard me say that Scabbers was in my bag!"

"Oh, what rubbish," Hermione said impatiently. "Crookshanks could smell him, Ron, how else d'you think-"

"That cat's got it in for Scabbers!" Ron said, ignoring the people around him, who were starting to giggle. "And Scabbers was here first, and he's ill!"

Ron marched through the common room and out of sight up the stairs to the boys' dormitories.

Harry stared after Ron, chewing on his pipe. "Interesting..." he whispered, more to himself, but he was sure Neville heard it. Smiling, he got out of his chair and looked at Neville. "I'm going for a walk. I'll meet you down at the feast."

Neville nodded, and Harry made his way out of the common room.

Harry wandered slowly toward the library, but halfway there he changed his mind. He didn't feel like working. He turned around and came face-to-face with Filch, who had obviously not forgotten last year.

"What are you doing?" Filch snarled suspiciously.

"Nothing," Harry said truthfully.

"Nothing!" Filch spat, his jowls quivering unpleasantly. "A likely story! Sneaking around on your own... Why aren't you in your common room?"

"Because I don't want to?"

"Well, get back to your common room where you belong!" Filch snapped, and he stood glaring until Harry had passed out of sight.

But Harry didn't go back to the common room. He climbed a staircase, thinking vaguely of visiting the Owlery to see Hedwig, and was walking along another corridor when a voice from inside one of the rooms said, "Harry?"

Harry doubled back to see who had spoken and met Professor Lupin, looking around his office door.

"What are you doing?" Lupin asked, though in a very different voice from Filch. "Where are Neville and Hermione?"

"Common room," Harry said with a smile. "I felt like taking a walk."

"Ah," Lupin said. He considered Harry for a moment. "Why don't you come in? I've just taken delivery of a Grindylow for my next third-year lesson."

"A Grindylow? From the lake?" Harry asked.

He followed Lupin into his office. In the corner stood a very large tank of water. A sickly green creature with sharp little horns had its face pressed against the glass, pulling faces and flexing its long, spindly fingers.

"You have already studied them, yes?" Lupin asked, surveying the Grindylow thoughtfully. "Remember how one deals with them?"

"The trick is to break his grip," Harry answered, smiling. "Its grip is strong, but the fingers are very brittle."

The Grindylow bared its green teeth and then buried itself in a tangle of weeds in a corner.

"Cup of tea?" Lupin asked, looking around for his kettle. "I was just thinking of making one."

"All right, if you insist," Harry said, nodding. Lupin smiled.

Lupin tapped the kettle with his wand and a blast of steam issued suddenly from the spout.

"Sit down," Lupin said, taking the lid off a dusty tin. "I've only got teabags, I'm afraid. I hope that's alright?"

"Of course."

Lupin nodded, passing Harry a chipped mug of tea. Something of Harry's thoughts seemed to have shown on his face, because Lupin said, "Anything worrying you, Harry?"

"No," Harry lied. He drank a bit of tea and watched the Grindylow brandishing a fist at him. "Yes," he said suddenly, putting his tea down on Lupin's desk. "Professor Lupin, you know the Dementors-"

He was interrupted by a knock on the door.

"Come in," Lupin called.

The door opened, and in came Snape. He was carrying a goblet, which was smoking faintly, and stopped at the sight of Harry, his black eyes narrowing.

"Ah, Severus," Lupin said, smiling. "Thanks very much. Could you leave it here on the desk for me?"

Snape set down the smoking goblet, his eyes wandering between Harry and Lupin.

"I was just showing Harry my Grindylow," Lupin said pleasantly, pointing at the tank.

"Fascinating," said Snape, without looking at it. "You should drink that directly, Lupin."

"Yes, yes, I will," Lupin said.

"I made an entire cauldronful," Snape continued. "If you need more."

"I should probably have some again tomorrow. Thanks very much, Severus."

"Not at all," Snape said, but there was a look in his eye Harry didn't like. He backed out of the room, unsmiling and watchful.

Harry looked curiously at the goblet. Lupin smiled.

"Professor Snape has very kindly concocted a potion for me," he said. "I have never been much of a potion-brewer and this one is particularly complex." He picked up the goblet and sniffed it. "Pity sugar makes it useless," he added, taking a sip and shuddering.

Harry sniffed the air as Lupin drained the goblet and pulled a face.

"Disgusting," he said. "Well, Harry, I'd better get back to work. See you at the feast later."

"Right," Harry said, putting down his empty teacup.

The empty goblet was still smoking.

"Wolfsbane, right?" Harry asked suddenly, seeing Lupin jerk in surprise, a deer-caught-in-the-headlights look on his face. "Then my theory is, indeed, correct."

Lupin quickly regained his composure. "And what theory is that, Harry?"

"When I first saw you on the Hogwarts Express, it was two days after the full moon, and it's common knowledge that werewolves are weakened for at least three days after transformation," Harry explained, "and now the Wolfsbane potion. It's quite obvious that you are a werewolf."

Lupin sighed, sitting down in his chair. "You're very clever, Harry," he said, smiling wearily at Harry. "So, what now?"

"Nothing," Harry said, shrugging. "I just wanted my theory confirmed. You have shown all signs of being a good man. The fact that you're a werewolf doesn't change that, and the fact that you drink Wolfsbane is another indicator that you're not a savage werewolf. Your secret is yours to share, not mine."

The Great Hall had been decorated with hundreds and hundreds of candle-filled pumpkins, a cloud of fluttering live bats, and many flaming orange streamers, which were swimming lazily across the stormy ceiling like brilliant watersnakes.

The food was delicious. Even Harry, Neville, and Hermione, who were full to bursting with Honeydukes sweets, managed second helpings of everything.

Harry glanced at the staff table. Professor Lupin looked more cheerful and than he ever had. He was talking animatedly to tiny little Professor Flitwick.

The feast finished with an entertainment provided by the Hogwarts ghosts. They popped out of the walls and tables to do a bit of formation gliding. Nearly Headless Nick had a great success with a reenactment of his own botched beheading.

It had been such a pleasant evening that Harry's good mood couldn't even be spoiled by Malfoy, who shouted through the crowd as they all left the hall, "The Dementors send their love, Potter!"

Harry, Neville, and Hermione followed the rest of the Gryffindors along the usual path to Gryffindor Tower, but when they reached the corridor that ended with the portrait of the Fat Lady, they found it jammed with students.

"Why isn't anyone going in?" Neville asked curiously.

Harry peered over the heads in front of him. The portrait seemed to be closed.

"Let me through, please," came someone's voice, and they came bustling importantly through the crowd. "What's the holdup here? You can't all have forgotten the password! Excuse me, I'm Head Boy!"

And then a silence fell over the crowd, from the front first, so that a chill seemed to spread down the corridor. They heard the Head Boy say, in a suddenly sharp voice, "Somebody get Professor Dumbledore. Quick."

People's heads turned. Those at the back were standing on tiptoe.

"What's going on?" Ginny, who had just arrived, asked.

A moment later, Professor Dumbledore was there, sweeping toward the portrait. The Gryffindors squeezed together to let him through, and Harry, Neville, and Hermione moved closer to see what the trouble was.

"Oh, my..." Hermione grabbed Harry's arm.

The Fat Lady had vanished from her portrait, which had been slashed so viciously that strips of canvas littered the floor. Great chunks of it had been torn away completely. Dumbledore took one quick look at the ruined painting and turned, his eyes somber, to see Professors McGonagall, Lupin, and Snape hurrying toward him.

"We need to find her," Dumbledore said. "Professor McGonagall, please go to Mr. Filch at once and tell him to search every painting in the castle for the Fat Lady."

"You'll be lucky!" a cackling voice said.

It was Peeves the Poltergeist, bobbing over the crowd and looking delighted, as he always did, at the sight of wreckage or worry.

"What do you mean, Peeves?" Dumbledore asked calmly, and Peeves's grin faded a little. He didn't dare taunt Dumbledore. Instead he adopted an oily voice that was no better than his cackle.

"Ashamed, Your Headship, sir. Doesn't want to be seen. She's a horrible mess. Saw her running through the landscape up on the fourth floor, sir, dodging between the trees. Crying something dreadful," he said happily. "Poor thing." he added unconvincingly.

"Did she say who did it?" Dumbledore asked quietly.

"Oh yes, Professorhead," Peeves said, with the air of one cradling a large bombshell in his arms. "He got very angry when she wouldn't let him in, you see." Peeves flipped over and grinned at Dumbledore from between his own legs. "Nasty temper he's got, that Sirius Black."

Harry took out his pipe, chewing on it thoughtfully. "Well, well..."

Dumbledore sent all the Gryffindors back to the Great Hall, where they were joined ten minutes later by the students from Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin, who all looked extremely confused.

"The teachers and I need to conduct a thorough search of the castle," Dumbledore told them as Professors McGonagall and Flitwick closed all doors into the hall. "I'm afraid that, for your own safety, you will have to spend the night here. I want the prefects to stand guard over the entrances to the hall and I am leaving the Head Boy and Girl in charge. Any disturbance should be reported to me immediately," he added to the Head Boy, who was looking immensely proud and important. "Send word with one of the ghosts."

Professor Dumbledore paused, about to leave the hall, and said, "Oh, yes, you'll be needing..."

One casual wave of his wand and the long tables flew to the edges of the hall and stood themselves against the walls. Another wave, and the floor was covered with hundreds of squashy purple sleeping bags.

"Sleep well," Professor Dumbledore said, closing the door behind him.

The hall immediately began to buzz excitedly. The Gryffindors were telling the rest of the school what had just happened.

"Everyone into their sleeping bags!" the Head Boy shouted. "Come on, now, no more talking! Lights out in ten minutes!"

"C'mon," Neville said to Harry and Hermione. They seized three sleeping bags and dragged them into a corner.

"Do you think Black's still in the castle?" Hermione whispered anxiously.

"Dumbledore obviously thinks he might be," Neville said.

"No, he wouldn't be so stupid as to stay after something like this," Harry whispered, reaching into his sleeping bag and taking out his pipe. He always ended up sleeping with his pipe in his mouth, due to the fact that he always spent thirty minutes before sleeping by thinking hard about whatever popped into his mind.

"It's very lucky he picked tonight, you know," Hermione said as they climbed fully dressed into their sleeping bags and propped themselves on their elbows to talk. "The one night we weren't in the tower..."

"I reckon he's lost track of time, being on the run," Neville said. "Didn't realize it was Halloween. Otherwise he'd have come bursting in here."

Hermione shuddered.

"Don't you find that strange?" Harry asked, smiling. "The one night we weren't in the tower..."

All around them, people were asking one another the same question: "How did he get in?"

"Maybe he knows how to Apparate," a Ravenclaw a few feet away said, "Just appear out of thin air, you know."

"Disguised himself, probably," a Hufflepuff fifth year said.

"He could've flown in," Dean Thomas suggested.

"Honestly, am I the only person who's ever bothered to read Hogwarts, A History?" Hermione said crossly to Harry and Neville.

"Probably," Neville said. "Well, except for Harry. Why?"

"Because the castle's protected by more than walls, you know," Hermione said. "There are all sorts of enchantments on it, to stop people entering by stealth. You can't just Apparate in here. And I'd like to see the disguise that could fool those Dementors. They're guarding every single entrance to the grounds. They'd have seen him fly in too. And Filch knows all the secret passages, they'll have them covered..."

"The lights are going out now!" the Head Boy shouted. "I want everyone in their sleeping bags and no more talking!"

The candles all went out at once. The only light now came from the silvery ghosts, who were drifting about talking seriously to the prefects, and the enchanted ceiling, which, like the sky outside, was scattered with stars. What with that, and the whispering that still filled the hall, Harry felt as though he were sleeping outdoors in a light wind.

Once every hour, a teacher would reappear in the Hall to check that everything was quiet. Around three in the morning, when many students had finally fallen asleep, Dumbledore came in. Harry watched him looking around for the Head Boy, who had been prowling between the sleeping bags, telling people off for talking. The Head Boy was only a short way away from Harry, Neville, and Hermione, who quickly pretended to be asleep as Dumbledore's footsteps drew nearer.

"Any sign of him, Professor?" the Head Boy asked in a whisper.

"No. All well here?"

"Everything under control, sir."

"Good. There's no point moving them all now. I've found a temporary guardian for the Gryffindor portrait hole. You'll be able to move them back in tomorrow."

"And the Fat Lady, sir?"

"Hiding in a map of Argyllshire on the second floor. Apparently she refused to let Black in without the password, so he attacked. She's still very distressed, but once she's calmed down, I'll have Mr. Filch restore her."

Harry heard the door of the hall creak open again, and more footsteps.

"Headmaster?" It was Snape. Harry kept quite still, listening hard. "The whole of the third floor has been searched. He's not there. And Filch has done the dungeons. Nothing there either."

"What about the Astronomy tower? Professor Trelawney's room? The Owlery?"

"All searched..."

"Very well, Severus. I didn't really expect Black to linger."

"Have you any theory as to how he got in, Professor?" Snape asked.

Harry raised his head very slightly off his arms to free his other ear.

"Many, Severus, each of them as unlikely as the next."

Harry opened his eyes a fraction and squinted up to where they stood. Dumbledore's back was to him, but he could see the Head Boy's face, rapt with attention, and Snape's profile, which looked angry.

"You remember the conversation we had, Headmaster, just before, ah, the start of term?" Snape, who was barely opening his lips, as though trying to block the Head Boy out of the conversation, asked.

"I do, Severus," Dumbledore said, and there was something like warning in his voice.

"It seems... almost impossible... that Black could have entered the school without inside help. I did express my concerns when you appointed-"

"I do not believe a single person inside this castle would have helped Black enter it," Dumbledore said, and his tone made it so clear that the subject was closed that Snape didn't reply. "I must go down to the Dementors," Dumbledore said. "I said I would inform them when our search was complete."

"Didn't they want to help, sir?" the Head Boy asked.

"Oh yes," Dumbledore said coldly. "But I'm afraid no Dementor will cross the threshold of this castle while I am Headmaster."

The Head Boy looked slightly abashed. Dumbledore left the hall, walking quickly and quietly. Snape stood for a moment, watching the headmaster with an expression of deep resentment on his face. Then he too left.

Harry glanced sideways at Neville and Hermione. Both of them had their eyes open too, reflecting the starry ceiling.

"What was all that about?" Neville mouthed.

Harry smiled to himself, chewing on his pipe, then whispered to his friends, "Once again, my friends, the game's afoot."

The school talked of nothing but Sirius Black for the next few days. The theories about how he entered the castle became wilder and wilder. Hannah Abbott spent much of their next Herbology class telling anyone who'd listen that Black could turn into a flowering shrub.

The Fat Lady's ripped canvas had been taken off the wall and replaced with the portrait of the volatile and rude Sir Cadogan and his fat gray pony. Nobody was very happy about this. Sir Cadogan spent half his time challenging people to duels, and the rest thinking up ridiculously complicated passwords, which he changed at least twice a day.

"He's a complete lunatic," Seamus Finnigan complained angrily to the Head Boy. "Can't we get anyone else?"

"None of the other pictures wanted the job," the Head Boy said. "Frightened of what happened to the Fat Lady. Sir Cadogan was the only one brave enough to volunteer."

Sir Cadogan, however, was the least of Harry's worries. He was now being closely watched. Teachers found excuses to walk along corridors with him, and some were even tailing him everywhere like guard dogs at times. To cap it all, Professor McGonagall summoned Harry into her office, with such a somber expression on her face that Harry thought someone might have died.

"There's no point hiding it from you any longer, Potter," she said in a very serious voice. "I know this will come as a shock to you, but Sirius Black-"

"I know he's after me," Harry said with a sigh. "The Minister told me during the summer holiday."

Professor McGonagall seemed very taken aback. She stared at Harry for a moment or two, then said, "I see! Well, in that case, Potter, you'll understand why I don't think it's a good idea for you to be wandering the grounds on your own?"

"Well, I haven't, have I?" Harry asked, smiling cheekily. "You people have done a bang-up job of following me whenever I go somewhere alone."

This also seemed to catch Professor McGonagall off-guard.

"You're all great teachers, but you're terrible actors and stalkers," Harry said, still smiling. "So, thank you, Professor, for your concern, but I'm a big boy. I can handle myself."

"I don't think you're taking this seriously, Potter," Professor McGonagall said, rising along with Harry. "Sirius Black is-"

"Oh, I am taking this very seriously, Professor," Harry said calmly. "I just look at it in a different way than you."

With that, he left the office.

Soon enough, December arrived, and on the eighteenth, Harry and Neville found themselves once more sitting in the Three Broomsticks, in a secluded corner, enjoying Madam Rosmerta's delicious mead.

"Harry, my good lad!" came a very happy voice that he recognized immediately. Looking up, he saw that it was indeed the Weasley twins approaching, covered in snow due to the storm outside.

"Fred, George," Harry said, nodding to each twin. "How good to see you both. How's business?"

"Flourishing, thanks to you!" George said happily as the two sat down in Harry and Neville's booth. "We're actually here on business, and decided to come give you a bit of festive cheer before we go," Fred said with a mysterious wink. George reached into his robes and beamed at Harry.

"Early Christmas present for you, Harry," he said.

He pulled something from inside his cloak with a flourish and laid it on the table. It was a large, square, very worn piece of parchment with nothing written on it.

"What's that supposed to be?" Neville asked, staring down at the parchment curiously.

"This, boys, is the secret of our success," George said, patting the parchment fondly.

"It's a wrench, giving it to you," Fred said, "but we decided last night, your need, still at Hogwarts and all, is greater than ours."

"Anyway, we know it by heart," George said. "We bequeath it to you. We don't really need it anymore."

"And what do I need with a bit of old parchment?" Harry asked.

"A bit of old parchment!" Fred said, closing his eyes with a grimace as though Harry had mortally offended him. "Explain, George."

"Well... when we were in our first year, Harry, young, carefree, and innocent-"

Harry snorted. He doubted whether Fred and George had ever been innocent.

"-well, more innocent than we are now, we got into a spot of bother with Filch."

"We let off a Dungbomb in the corridor and it upset him for some reason..."

"So he hauled us off to his office and started threatening us with the usual-"

"-detention-"

"-disembowelment-"

"-and we couldn't help noticing a drawer in one of his filing cabinets marked Confiscated and Highly Dangerous."

"Don't tell me..." Harry said, starting to grin.

"Well, what would you've done?" Fred asked. "George caused a diversion by dropping another Dungbomb, I whipped the drawer open, and grabbed... this."

"It's not as bad as it sounds, you know," said George. "We don't reckon Filch ever found out how to work it. He probably suspected what it was, though, or he wouldn't have confiscated it."

"And you know how to work it?"

"Oh yes," Fred said, smirking. "This little beauty's taught us more than all the teachers in this school."

"You're winding me up," Harry said, looking at the ragged old bit of parchment.

"Oh, are we?" George asked.

He took out his wand, touched the parchment lightly, and whispered, "I solemnly swear that I am up to no good."

And at once, thin ink lines began to spread like a spider's web from the point that George's wand had touched. They joined each other, they crisscrossed, they fanned into every corner of the parchment. Then words began to blossom across the top, great, curly green words, that proclaimed:

Messrs. Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs

Purveyors of Aids to Magical Mischief-Makers are proud to present

THE MARAUDER'S MAP

It was a map showing every detail of the Hogwarts castle and grounds. But the truly remarkable thing were the tiny ink dots moving around it, each labeled with a name in minuscule writing. Astounded, Harry bent over it. A labeled dot in the top left corner showed that Professor Dumbledore was pacing his study. The caretaker's cat, Mrs. Norris, was prowling the second floor; and Peeves the Poltergeist was currently bouncing around the trophy room. And as Harry's eyes traveled up and down the familiar corridors, he noticed something else.

This map showed a set of passages he had never entered. And many of them seemed to lead-

"Right into Hogsmeade," Fred said, tracing one of them with his finger. "There are seven in all. Now, Filch knows about these four," he pointed them out, "but we're sure we're the only ones who know about these. Don't bother with the one behind the mirror on the fourth floor. We used it until last winter, but it's caved in... completely blocked. And we don't reckon anyone's ever used this one, because the Whomping Willow's planted right over the entrance. But this one here, this one leads right into the cellar of Honeydukes. We've used it loads of times. And as you might've noticed, the entrance is through that one-eyed old crone's hump on the third floor."

"Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs," George sighed, patting the heading of the map. "We owe them so much."

"Noble men, working tirelessly to help a new generation of lawbreakers," Fred said solemnly.

"Right," George said briskly. "Don't forget to wipe it after you've used it-"

"-or anyone can read it," Fred said warningly.

"Just tap it again and say, 'Mischief managed!' And it'll go blank."

"So, young Harry," Fred said in an uncanny impersonation of Percy, "mind you behave yourself."

"See you around," George said, winking.

They left the pub, both smirking in a satisfied sort of way.

"Mischief managed," Harry said, tapping the map with his wand, watching as the ink faded away. "Very nice."

"That's lucky," Neville said. "I'm actually envious of you."

"Aren't you always?" Harry asked with a smirk. "I've read your book, you know."

Neville scoffed, crossing his arms.

"Don't show it to Hermione, though," he told Harry. "She'll either ask you to turn it in, or tell McGonagall."

"She truly believes that authority is always right, bless her," Harry said, shaking his head sadly as he pocketed the map. "Well," he said, raising his tankard, "Merry Christmas, Neville."

"Merry Christmas, Harry," Neville said, doing the same.

Harry drank deeply, savoring the taste, when a sudden breeze ruffled his hair. The door of the Three Broomsticks had opened again. Harry looked over the rim of his tankard.

Professors McGonagall and Flitwik had just entered the pub with a flurry of snowflakes, shortly followed by Hagrid, who was deep in conversation with a portly man in a lime-green bowler hat and a pin-striped cloak. Cornelius Fudge, Minister of Magic.

They watched as the four took their seats at a table, and heard the grunts and sighs from the teachers and minister as they sat down.

Next, he saw Madam Rosmerta approaching.

"A small gillywater-"

"Mine," Professor McGonagall said.

"Four pints of mulled mead-"

"Ta, Rosmerta," Hagrid said.

"A cherry syrup and soda with ice and umbrella-"

"Mmm!" Professor Flitwik said, smacking his lips.

"So you'll be the red currant rum, Minister."

"Thank you, Rosmerta, m'dear," Fudge said. "Lovely to see you again, I must say. Have one yourself, won't you? Come and join us..."

"Well, thank you very much, Minister."

Harry watched Rosmerta walking away to the bar, then back again, holding a glass of gillywater, sitting down between Fudge and Hagrid.

"So, what brings you to this neck of the woods, Minister?" Rosmerta asked Fudge, who sighed and looked around, checking for eavesdroppers. Harry was quick to duck his head out of sight, and Neville did the same.

"What else, m'dear, but Sirius Black?" Fudge said in a quiet voice. "I daresay you heard what happened up at the school at Halloween?"

"I did hear a rumor," Rosmerta admitted.

"Did you tell the whole pub, Hagrid?" Professor McGonagall asked exasperatedly.

"Do you think Black's still in the area, Minister?" Rosmerta whispered.

"I'm sure of it," Fudge said shortly.

"You know that the dementors have searched the whole village twice?" Rosmerta asked, a slight edge to her voice. "Scared all my customers away... It's very bad for business, Minister."

"Rosmerta, m'dear, I don't like them any more than you do," Fudge said uncomfortably. "Necessary precaution... unfortunate, but there you are... I've just met some of them. They're in a fury against Dumbledore. He won't let them inside the castle grounds."

"I should think not," Professor McGonagall said sharply. "How are we supposed to teach with those horrors floating around?"

"Hear, hear!" Professor Flitwik squeaked, sipping his drink.

"All the same," Fudge demurred, "they are here to protect you all from something much worse... We all know what Black's capable of."

"Do you know, I still have trouble believing it," Rosmerta said thoughtfully. "Of all the people to go over to the Dark Side, Sirius Black was the last I'd have thought... mean, I remember him when he was a boy at Hogwarts. If you'd told me then what he was going to become, I'd have said you'd had too much mead."

"Minister," Harry said as he stood up, announcing his presence, which made the three teachers and Minister jump in surprise.

"Potter!" Professor McGonagall said in shock. "You..."

"Professor Vector was easy to lose, much too easy," Harry said, waving her off as he took a seat between her and the Minister. "Minister Fudge, I have a few questions for you, regarding the arrest of Sirius Black and the murder of Peter Pettigrew."

Fudge blinked, and squirmed a bit at that.

"But then, my boy, you know...?"

"I know," Harry said, nodding. "That is why I would like as much information as possible."

Fudge sighed.

"Very well, Harry, what would you like to know?"

"What was the scene like?"

"Well, I was Junior Minister in the Department of Magical Catastrophes at the time," Fudge said with a shudder, "and I was one of the first on the scene after Black murdered all those people. I... I will never forget it. I still dream about it sometimes. A crater in the middle of the street, so deep it had cracked the sewer below. Bodies everywhere. Muggles screaming. And Black standing there laughing, with what was left of Pettigrew in front of him... a heap of bloodstained robes and a few... a few fragments..."

Fudge stopped abruptly, blowing his nose, along with the other four occupants of the table.

"What was the conclusion of the cause of death?" Harry asked calmly, not fazed.

"Death by an Exploding Curse, the very same curse that also blew up the street and killed those Muggles," Fudge said thickly, clearly saddened from the memories.

Harry gave a hum as he stood up.

"Thank you, Minister. That cleared up a lot of questions."

"It... It did?" Fudge asked, and Harry nodded, before turning around and walking back to his booth.

On Christmas morning, Harry was woken by Neville throwing his pillow at him.

"Oy! Presents!"

Harry slowly opened his eyes, squinting through the semi-darkness to the foot of his bed, where a small heap of parcels had appeared. Neville was already ripping the paper off his own presents.

From his school friends, Harry had gotten a dozen home-baked mince pies, some Christmas cake, a box of nut brittle, and a lot of chocolate. As he moved all these things aside, he saw another package underneath.

"What's that?" Neville said, looking over, a freshly unwrapped pair of maroon socks in his hand.

"Dunno..."

Harry ripped the parcel open and gasped as a black leather violin case rolled out onto his bedspread. Neville dropped his socks and jumped off his bed for a closer look.

"What's this?" he asked curiously.

Harry slowly opened the case, and gaped as he saw the violin, just as Hermione came into the dorm, wearing her dressing gown and carrying Crookshanks, who was looking very grumpy, with a string of tinsel tied around his neck, and holding the gift Harry had bought her: a bottomless bag with a large assortment of books in it. She smiled when she saw Harry slowly lifting the violin out of the case.

"Do you like it?" she asked brightly.

Harry ran his fingers along the polished wood, not answering, or rather, not hearing, Hermione's question. He froze when his fingers traced over a print on the back.

Stradivarius – 1711

"Hermione!" he yelled as he stared up at Hermione, shocked. "This is a 1711 Stradivarius!" Hermione nodded, still smiling. "It's worth millions of pounds!"

"Oh, I didn't pay for it," Hermione said, waving him off. "You're not that good a friend. No, my grandfather had it, and I inherited it when he died, but I'm no good with it."

Harry gulped, then stood up, striding over to Hermione and grabbing her in a tight hug. "Thank you," he whispered.

At lunchtime, they went down to the Great Hall, to find that the House tables had been moved against the walls again, and that a single table, set for twelve, stood in the middle of the room. Professors Dumbledore, McGonagall, Snape, Sprout, and Flitwick were there, along with Filch, who had taken off his usual brown coat and was wearing a very old and rather moldy-looking tailcoat. There were only three other students, two extremely nervous-looking first years and a sullen-faced Slytherin fifth year.

"Happy Christmas!" Dumbledore said as Harry, Neville, and Hermione approached the table, Neville proudly showing off the gold pocket watch Harry had bought him for Christmas. "As there are so few of us, it seemed foolish to use the House tables... Sit down, sit down!"

Harry, Neville, and Hermione sat down side by side at the end of the table.

"Crackers!" Dumbledore said enthusiastically, offering the end of a large silver noisemaker to Snape, who took it reluctantly and tugged. With a bang like a gunshot, the cracker flew apart to reveal a large, pointed witches hat topped with a stuffed vulture. Snape's mouth thinned and he pushed the hat toward Dumbledore, who swapped it for his wizard's hat at once.

"Dig in!" he advised the table, beaming around.

As Harry was helping himself to roast potatoes, the doors of the Great Hall opened again. It was Professor Trelawney, gliding toward them as though on wheels. She had put on a green sequined dress in honor of the occasion, making her look more than ever like a glittering, oversized dragonfly.

"Sybill, this is a pleasant surprise!" Dumbledore said, standing up.

"I have been crystal gazing, Headmaster," Professor Trelawney said in her mistiest, most faraway voice, "and to my astonishment, I saw myself abandoning my solitary luncheon and coming to join you. Who am I to refuse the promptings of fate? I at once hastened from my tower, and I do beg you to forgive my lateness..."

"Certainly, certainly," Dumbledore said, his eyes twinkling. "Let me draw you up a chair..."

And he did indeed draw a chair in midair with his wand, which revolved for a few seconds before falling with a thud between Professors Snape and McGonagall. Professor Trelawney, however, did not sit down. Her enormous eyes had been roving around the table, and she suddenly uttered a kind of soft scream.

"I dare not, Headmaster! If I join the table, we shall be thirteen! Nothing could be more unlucky! Never forget that when thirteen dine together, the first to rise will be the first to die!"

"We'll risk it, Sybill," Professor McGonagall said impatiently. "Do sit down, the turkey's getting stone cold."

Professor Trelawney hesitated, then lowered herself into the empty chair, eyes shut and mouth clenched tight, as though expecting a thunderbolt to hit the table. Professor McGonagall poked a large spoon into the nearest tureen.

"Tripe, Sybill?"

Professor Trelawney ignored her. Eyes open again, she looked around once more and said, "But where is dear Professor Lupin?"

"I'm afraid the poor fellow is ill again," Dumbledore said, indicating that everybody should start serving themselves. "Most unfortunate that it should happen on Christmas Day."

"But surely you already knew that, Sybill?" Professor McGonagall asked, her eyebrows raised.

Professor Trelawney gave Professor McGonagall a very cold look.

"Certainly I knew, Minerva," she said quietly. "But one does not parade the fact that one is All-Knowing. I frequently act as though I am not possessed of the Inner Eye, so as not to make others nervous."

"That explains a great deal," Professor McGonagall said tartly.

Professor Trelawney's voice suddenly became a good deal less misty.

"If you must know, Minerva, I have seen that poor Professor Lupin will not be with us for very long. He seems aware, himself, that his time is short. He positively fled when I offered to crystal gaze for him..."

"Imagine that," Professor McGonagall said dryly.

"I doubt," Dumbledore said, in a cheerful but slightly raised voice, which put an end to Professor McGonagall and Professor Trelawney's conversation, "that Professor Lupin is in any immediate danger. Severus, you've made the potion for him again?"

"Yes, Headmaster," Snape said.

"Good," Dumbledore said. "Then he should be up and about in no time... Derek, have you had any of the chipolatas? They're excellent."

The first-year boy went furiously red on being addressed directly by Dumbledore, and took the platter of sausages with trembling hands.

Meanwhile, Harry and Neville were having a conversation.

"I don't see why people fret so much over a simple number," Harry said, loud enough to catch the attention of Dumbledore, at least, but he suspected everyone else heard as well. "For example, some buildings simply avoid adding the number thirteen to their list of floors."

"What?" Neville asked, blinking. "So, if I stepped into an elevator, I'd see ten, eleven, twelve, fourteen?"

"Exactly," Harry said, nodding. "Even though everyone knows that the fourteenth floor is, in fact, the thirteenth. And, it's a great lie to say that you're on the fourteenth floor. After all, if you jump out the window, you will hit the ground 0.02 seconds earlier than you would if you jumped off the actual fourteenth floor."

"It's the magical att-" Professor Trelawney started, but was interrupted by Neville.

"Then the letter B should also be considered unlucky, because B looks like a scrunched together thirteen, doesn't it?"

Harry gave a hum as he stood up.

"Thank you, Minister. That cleared up a lot of questions."

"It... It did?" Fudge asked, and Harry nodded, before turning around and walking back to his booth.

On Christmas morning, Harry was woken by Neville throwing his pillow at him.

"Oy! Presents!"

Harry slowly opened his eyes, squinting through the semi-darkness to the foot of his bed, where a small heap of parcels had appeared. Neville was already ripping the paper off his own presents.

From his school friends, Harry had gotten a dozen home-baked mince pies, some Christmas cake, a box of nut brittle, and a lot of chocolate. As he moved all these things aside, he saw another package underneath.

"What's that?" Neville said, looking over, a freshly unwrapped pair of maroon socks in his hand.

"Dunno..."

Harry ripped the parcel open and gasped as a black leather violin case rolled out onto his bedspread. Neville dropped his socks and jumped off his bed for a closer look.

"What's this?" he asked curiously.

Harry slowly opened the case, and gaped as he saw the violin, just as Hermione came into the dorm, wearing her dressing gown and carrying Crookshanks, who was looking very grumpy, with a string of tinsel tied around his neck, and holding the gift Harry had bought her: a bottomless bag with a large assortment of books in it. She smiled when she saw Harry slowly lifting the violin out of the case.

"Do you like it?" she asked brightly.

Harry ran his fingers along the polished wood, not answering, or rather, not hearing, Hermione's question. He froze when his fingers traced over a print on the back.

Stradivarius – 1711

"Hermione!" he yelled as he stared up at Hermione, shocked. "This is a 1711 Stradivarius!" Hermione nodded, still smiling. "It's worth millions of pounds!"

"Oh, I didn't pay for it," Hermione said, waving him off. "You're not that good a friend. No, my grandfather had it, and I inherited it when he died, but I'm no good with it."

Harry gulped, then stood up, striding over to Hermione and grabbing her in a tight hug. "Thank you," he whispered.

At lunchtime, they went down to the Great Hall, to find that the House tables had been moved against the walls again, and that a single table, set for twelve, stood in the middle of the room. Professors Dumbledore, McGonagall, Snape, Sprout, and Flitwick were there, along with Filch, who had taken off his usual brown coat and was wearing a very old and rather moldy-looking tailcoat. There were only three other students, two extremely nervous-looking first years and a sullen-faced Slytherin fifth year.

"Happy Christmas!" Dumbledore said as Harry, Neville, and Hermione approached the table, Neville proudly showing off the gold pocket watch Harry had bought him for Christmas. "As there are so few of us, it seemed foolish to use the House tables... Sit down, sit down!"

Harry, Neville, and Hermione sat down side by side at the end of the table.

"Crackers!" Dumbledore said enthusiastically, offering the end of a large silver noisemaker to Snape, who took it reluctantly and tugged. With a bang like a gunshot, the cracker flew apart to reveal a large, pointed witches hat topped with a stuffed vulture. Snape's mouth thinned and he pushed the hat toward Dumbledore, who swapped it for his wizard's hat at once.

"Dig in!" he advised the table, beaming around.

As Harry was helping himself to roast potatoes, the doors of the Great Hall opened again. It was Professor Trelawney, gliding toward them as though on wheels. She had put on a green sequined dress in honor of the occasion, making her look more than ever like a glittering, oversized dragonfly.

"Sybill, this is a pleasant surprise!" Dumbledore said, standing up.

"I have been crystal gazing, Headmaster," Professor Trelawney said in her mistiest, most faraway voice, "and to my astonishment, I saw myself abandoning my solitary luncheon and coming to join you. Who am I to refuse the promptings of fate? I at once hastened from my tower, and I do beg you to forgive my lateness..."

"Certainly, certainly," Dumbledore said, his eyes twinkling. "Let me draw you up a chair..."

And he did indeed draw a chair in midair with his wand, which revolved for a few seconds before falling with a thud between Professors Snape and McGonagall. Professor Trelawney, however, did not sit down. Her enormous eyes had been roving around the table, and she suddenly uttered a kind of soft scream.

"I dare not, Headmaster! If I join the table, we shall be thirteen! Nothing could be more unlucky! Never forget that when thirteen dine together, the first to rise will be the first to die!"

"We'll risk it, Sybill," Professor McGonagall said impatiently. "Do sit down, the turkey's getting stone cold."

Professor Trelawney hesitated, then lowered herself into the empty chair, eyes shut and mouth clenched tight, as though expecting a thunderbolt to hit the table. Professor McGonagall poked a large spoon into the nearest tureen.

"Tripe, Sybill?"

Professor Trelawney ignored her. Eyes open again, she looked around once more and said, "But where is dear Professor Lupin?"

"I'm afraid the poor fellow is ill again," Dumbledore said, indicating that everybody should start serving themselves. "Most unfortunate that it should happen on Christmas Day."

"But surely you already knew that, Sybill?" Professor McGonagall asked, her eyebrows raised.

Professor Trelawney gave Professor McGonagall a very cold look.

"Certainly I knew, Minerva," she said quietly. "But one does not parade the fact that one is All-Knowing. I frequently act as though I am not possessed of the Inner Eye, so as not to make others nervous."

"That explains a great deal," Professor McGonagall said tartly.

Professor Trelawney's voice suddenly became a good deal less misty.

"If you must know, Minerva, I have seen that poor Professor Lupin will not be with us for very long. He seems aware, himself, that his time is short. He positively fled when I offered to crystal gaze for him..."

"Imagine that," Professor McGonagall said dryly.

"I doubt," Dumbledore said, in a cheerful but slightly raised voice, which put an end to Professor McGonagall and Professor Trelawney's conversation, "that Professor Lupin is in any immediate danger. Severus, you've made the potion for him again?"

"Yes, Headmaster," Snape said.

"Good," Dumbledore said. "Then he should be up and about in no time... Derek, have you had any of the chipolatas? They're excellent."

The first-year boy went furiously red on being addressed directly by Dumbledore, and took the platter of sausages with trembling hands.

Meanwhile, Harry and Neville were having a conversation.

"I don't see why people fret so much over a simple number," Harry said, loud enough to catch the attention of Dumbledore, at least, but he suspected everyone else heard as well. "For example, some buildings simply avoid adding the number thirteen to their list of floors."

"What?" Neville asked, blinking. "So, if I stepped into an elevator, I'd see ten, eleven, twelve, fourteen?"

"Exactly," Harry said, nodding. "Even though everyone knows that the fourteenth floor is, in fact, the thirteenth. And, it's a great lie to say that you're on the fourteenth floor. After all, if you jump out the window, you will hit the ground 0.02 seconds earlier than you would if you jumped off the actual fourteenth floor."

"It's the magical att-" Professor Trelawney started, but was interrupted by Neville.

"Then the letter B should also be considered unlucky, because B looks like a scrunched together thirteen, doesn't it?"

"Well," Harry said, a smirk appearing on his face, "isn't this interesting..."


	12. Chapter 12

Harry was standing by the window in the dormitory, staring out of it while chewing on his pipe in thought. The grounds were still and quiet. No breath of wind disturbed the treetops in the Forbidden Forest; the Whomping Willow was motionless and innocent-looking.

Around him, everyone else were asleep, not a care in the world, but Harry couldn't sleep. He had too much to think about. Harry set down his goblet that he'd been holding, and was about to turn back to his bed, when something caught his eye. An animal of some kind was prowling across the silvery lawn.

He peered out at the grounds again and, after a minute's searching, spotted it. It was skirting the edge of the forest now... It was a cat... Harry clutched the window ledge in relief as he recognized the bottlebrush tail. It was only Crookshanks...

Or was it only Crookshanks? Harry squinted, pressing his nose flat against the glass. Crookshanks seemed to have come to a halt. Harry was sure he could see something else moving in the shadow of the trees too.

And just then, it emerged, a gigantic, shaggy black dog, moving stealthily across the lawn, Crookshanks trotting at its side.

Harry stared. What did this mean? Without looking away, he kicked Neville's bed, which was just by the window, shaking the boy awake.

"Wuzzat?" he asked groggily as he slowly opened his eyes.

Harry gestured for him to stand up.

"Come here, Neville," he said, not taking his eyes off the dog. "What do you see?"

Neville groaned as he got up, probably tired of Harry's antics. However, he decided to humor him, and walked over to the window, only to gape when he saw what's down there.

"Harry... is that a Grim?"

"You'd think so, wouldn't you? But I'm more interested in his companion," Harry said, and Neville squinted, staring down at Crookshanks.

"What's Hermione's cat doing with that dog?" Neville asked. "It's obviously not a Grim, since we can all see it."

"Crookshanks is a very intelligent cat," Harry said, smiling. "The pieces are coming together now, Neville. I can feel it."

"You have a theory?"

"I have many," Harry said as he saw the two walk into the forest. "But let's not dwell on them now. It's late, after all."

"Harry... What are you doing?"

Neville stood behind Harry in the lawns. Harry himself was kneeling in the grass, his nose almost touching the ground.

"Ronald's rat is dead, no?" Harry asked, and Neville nodded.

"Yeah, so?"

"So, why is there rat tracks here, then?" Harry asked, pointing down at the ground. "And before you ask, yes, I'm sure it's Scabbers. See, Scabbers had a peculiar trait. His front paw lacked a finger, and these tracks show that that very finger is missing."

"Harry, come on," Hermione said, looking around nervously. "It's getting late, and we shouldn't be outside after dark..."

"Nonsense, this is very important," Harry said as he stood up and started walking down the sloping lawns, his gaze fixed on the ground. "Scabbers is very, very important."

Harry followed the tracks all the way down to Hagrid's hut, and he knocked softly. Fang's barking was heard, and the door opened to reveal Hagrid, who immediately opened his mouth, no doubt to chastise him for being out after curfew, but Harry beat him to it.

"No time, Hagrid, no time. I'm merely looking for something."

Without another word, he stepped inside Hagrid's hut, his gaze fixed on the floor as he heard Neville and Hermione apologizing to Hagrid for barging in like that.

"Blood," Harry said, pointing to a miniscule stain on the floor, then at the counter. "Blood."

Harry gave a triumphant cry and dove for the empty milk jug on the counter, shoving his hand into it. As he pulled his hand out, he could be seen holding the tail of a struggling, scrawny rat.

"It's Scabbers!" Hermione exclaimed in shock.

Harry grabbed the struggling rat and held him up to the light. Scabbers looked dreadful. He was thinner than ever, large tufts of hair had fallen out leaving wide bald patches, and he writhed in Harry's hands as though desperate to free himself.

"You're a smart rat, aren't you?" Harry asked as he chewed on his pipe, switching his grip so that he was holding Scabbers by the tail again. "Listen up. You're gonna stop struggling, or I shall feed you to Crookshanks."

Scabbers seemed to understand, as he reluctantly stopped struggling, instead settling for shivering to himself.

"Thank you, Hagrid, for letting us in. We'll take our leave now."

Without another word, Harry left the stunned Hagrid's cabin.

"I don't get it," Neville said as they walked across the lawns. "What's so special about that rat?"

"Everything, Neville," Harry said calmly. "Hold this," he said, handing the rat to Neville, who stuffed Scabbers into his pocket while Harry reached into his pocket and took out his Invisibility Cloak.

He threw the cloak over Neville and Hermione, and then started walking again. They started up the sloping lawn toward the castle. The sun was sinking fast now. The sky had turned to a clear, purple-tinged gray, but to the west there was a ruby-red glow.

Neville stopped dead. He was bent over, trying to keep Scabbers in his pocket, but the rat was going berserk, squeaking madly, twisting and flailing, trying to sink his teeth into Neville's hand.

"He's worried about something," Harry whispered, chewing on his pipe thoughtfully and looking around.

"Oh, Neville, please let's move, they're going to do it!" Hermione breathed.

"Okay... You stupid rat, stay still!"

They walked forward, but Neville stopped again.

"Harry, I can't hold him. Why is it so important to bring him back? He'll just let everyone know we're here."

The rat was squealing wildly, but Harry ignored it as they set off back toward the castle, walking slowly to keep themselves hidden under the cloak. The light was fading fast now.

By the time they reached open ground, darkness was settling like a spell around them.

"The rat won't stay still..." Neville hissed, clamping his hand over his chest. The rat was wriggling madly. Neville came to a sudden halt, trying to force Scabbers deeper into his pocket. "What's the matter with you, you stupid rat? Stay still... OUCH! He bit me!"

"Neville, be quiet!" Hermione whispered urgently.

"Let's just throw the rat in the Lake and be done with it!"

Scabbers was plainly terrified. He was writhing with all his might, trying to break free of Neville's grip.

"What's the matter with him?"

But Harry had just seen, slinking toward them, his body low to the ground, wide yellow eyes glinting eerily in the darkness... Crookshanks. Whether he could see them or was following the sound of Scabbers's squeaks, Harry couldn't tell.

"Crookshanks!" Hermione moaned. "No, go away, Crookshanks! Go away!"

But the cat was getting nearer...

"Blast!"

The rat managed to slip between Neville's clutching fingers, hit the ground, and scamper away. In one bound, Crookshanks sprang after him.

"Get the rat!" Harry said urgently, throwing off the Invisibility Cloak and rushing after Crookshanks and Scabbers.

"Harry!" Hermione moaned.

She and Neville looked at each other, then followed at a sprint. It was impossible to run full out under the cloak, so they pulled it off and it streamed behind them like a banner as they hurtled after Harry. They could hear his feet thundering along ahead.

Harry and Crookshanks had to skid to a halt as the rat did a U-turn and slipped between Harry's legs, heading back the way it came. There was a loud thud.

"Gotcha!"

Harry and Hermione skidded to a stop right in front of Neville, who was sprawled on the ground, but Scabbers was back in his pocket. He had both hands held tight over the quivering lump.

"Good job, Neville," Harry said, patting Neville on the back. "Now let's get back under the cloak..."

But before they could cover themselves again, before they could even catch their breath, they heard the soft pounding of gigantic paws... Something was bounding toward them, quiet as a shadow, an enormous, pale-eyed, jet-black dog.

Harry reached for his wand, but too late. The dog had made an enormous leap and the front paws hit him on the chest. He keeled over backward in a whirl of hair. He felt its hot breath, saw inch-long teeth...

But the force of its leap had carried it too far. It rolled off him. Dazed, feeling as though his ribs were broken, Harry tried to stand up. He could hear it growling as it skidded around for a new attack.

Neville was on his feet. As the dog sprang back toward them he pushed Harry aside. The dog's jaws fastened instead around Neville's outstretched arm. Harry lunged forward, he seized a handful of the brute's hair, but it was dragging Neville away as easily as though he were a rag doll...

Then, out of nowhere, something hit Harry so hard across the face he was knocked off his feet again. He heard Hermione shriek with pain and fall too.

Harry groped for his wand, blinking blood out of his eyes.

"Lumos!" he whispered.

The wandlight showed him the trunk of a thick tree. They had chased Scabbers into the shadow of the Whomping Willow and its branches were creaking as though in a high wind, whipping backward and forward to stop them going nearer.

And there, at the base of the trunk, was the dog, dragging Neville backward into a large gap in the roots... Neville was fighting furiously, but his head and torso were slipping out of sight...

"Neville!" Harry shouted, trying to follow, but a heavy branch whipped lethally through the air and he was forced backward again.

All they could see now was one of Neville's legs, which he had hooked around a root in an effort to stop the dog from pulling him farther underground, but a horrible crack cut the air like a gunshot. Neville's leg had broken, and a moment later, his foot vanished from sight.

"Harry, we've got to go for help!" Hermione gasped. She was bleeding too, as the Willow had cut her across the shoulder.

"No! We haven't got time," Harry said.

"Harry, we're never going to get through without help-"

Another branch whipped down at them, twigs clenched like knuckles.

"If that dog can get in, we can too," Harry panted, darting here and there, trying to find a way through the vicious, swishing branches, but he couldn't get an inch nearer to the tree roots without being in range of the tree's blows.

"Oh, help, help," Hermione whispered frantically, dancing uncertainly on the spot, "Please..."

Crookshanks darted forward. He slithered between the battering branches like a snake and placed his front paws upon a knot on the trunk.

Abruptly, as though the tree had been turned to marble, it stopped moving. Not a leaf twitched or shook.

"Crookshanks!" Hermione whispered uncertainly. She now grasped Harry's arm painfully hard. "How did he know...?"

"He's friends with that dog," Harry said calmly, walking forward. "I've seen them together. Come on... and please, do keep your wand out."

They covered the distance to the trunk in seconds, but before they had reached the gap in the roots, Crookshanks had slid into it with a flick of his bottlebrush tail. Harry went next. He crawled forward, headfirst, and slid down an earthy slope to the bottom of a very low tunnel.

Crookshanks was a little way along, his eyes flashing in the light from Harry's wand. Seconds later, Hermione slithered down beside him.

"Where's Neville?" she whispered in a terrified voice.

"This way, obviously," Harry said, setting off, bent-backed, after Crookshanks.

"Where does this tunnel come out?" Hermione asked breathlessly from behind him.

"I don't know... It's marked on the Marauder's Map, but Fred and George said no one's ever gotten into it... It goes off the edge of the map, but it looked like it was heading for Hogsmeade..."

"Marauder's Map?" Hermione asked.

"A map that shows the whole castle, and all the ways out of it," Harry explained, waving her off when he saw her about to open her mouth. "But Professor Lupin confiscated it a couple of weeks ago. We have more important things to worry about."

They moved as fast as they could, bent almost double. Ahead of them, Crookshanks's tail bobbed in and out of view. On and on went the passage, and it felt at least as long as the one to Honeydukes... All Harry could think of was Neville and what might have happened to him... He was drawing breath in sharp, painful gasps, running at a crouch...

And then the tunnel began to rise. Moments later it twisted, and Crookshanks had gone. Ahead Harry could see a patch of dim light through a small opening.

He and Hermione paused, gasping for breath, edging forward. Both raised their wands to see what lay beyond.

It was a room, a very disordered, dusty room. Paper was peeling from the walls, there were stains all over the floor, and every piece of furniture was broken as though somebody had smashed it. The windows were all boarded up.

Harry glanced at Hermione, who looked very frightened but nodded.

Harry pulled himself out of the hole, staring around. The room was deserted, but a door to their right stood open, leading to a shadowy hallway. Hermione suddenly grabbed Harry's arm again. Her wide eyes were traveling around the boarded windows.

"Harry," she whispered, "I think we're in the Shrieking Shack."

Harry nodded and looked around. His eyes fell on a wooden chair near them. Large chunks had been torn out of it and one of the legs had been ripped off entirely.

"Ghosts didn't do that," he said slowly.

At that moment, there was a creak overhead. Something had moved upstairs. Both of them looked up at the ceiling. Hermione's grip on Harry's arm was so tight he was losing feeling in his fingers.

He raised his eyebrows at her. She nodded again and let go.

Quietly as they could, they crept out into the hall and up the crumbling staircase. Everything was covered in a thick layer of dust except the floor, where a wide shiny stripe had been made by something being dragged upstairs.

They reached the dark landing.

"Nox," they whispered together, and the lights at the end of their wands went out. Only one door was open. As they crept toward it, they heard movement from behind it, a low moan, and then a deep, loud purring. They exchanged a last look, a last nod.

Wand held tightly before him, Harry kicked the door wide open.

On a magnificent four-poster bed with dusty hangings lay Crookshanks, purring loudly at the sight of them. On the floor beside him, clutching his leg, which stuck out at a strange angle, was Neville.

Harry and Hermione dashed across to him.

"Neville, are you okay?" Harry asked as he looked over the broken leg.

"Where's the dog?"

"Not a-"

"-dog, I know," Harry said, smiling. "An Animagus. Sirius Black."

Neville, who'd been staring over Harry's shoulder, looked at him in shock, along with Hermione. Harry turned around. With a snap, the man in the shadows closed the door behind them.

A mass of filthy, matted hair hung to his elbows. If eyes hadn't been shining out of the deep, dark sockets, he might have been a corpse. The waxy skin was stretched so tightly over the bones of his face, it looked like a skull. His yellow teeth were bared in a grin. It was Sirius Black.

"Expelliarmus!" he croaked, pointing Neville's wand at them.

"Protego!" Harry yelled, throwing up a shield and deflecting the spell and sending it up into the ceiling, blowing a hole through it. "Expelliarmus! Stupefy! Incarcerous!"

This seemed to take Black by surprise, as Neville's wand went flying out of his hand. The Stunner hit him in the chest, dropping him like a puppet with its strings cut, and he was soon wrapped in thick ropes, binding him tightly.

Harry moved over to Neville, who was panting from the pain. "How is it?"

"The tibia is snapped clean," Neville muttered, getting a strange glance from Harry. "What? I want to be a healer, remember?"

"Oh, right," Harry said, bunching up a handful of Neville's frock coat and holding it out. "Bite down on this, because this is going to hurt. Hermione, make sure Mr. Black doesn't wake up."

They both did as Harry told them. Harry started feeling up along Neville's leg until he felt Neville's bone protruding through his skin. Grabbing it, he gave the leg a quick twist, realigning the bone, making Neville scream in pain, though it was muffled by the cloth in his mouth.

"I really didn't think he would be so overcautious," Harry said, conjuring up a splint and bandages, which wrapped themselves around Neville's leg. "And now, Rennerevate." Harry pointed his wand at Black, whose eyes snapped open. "It's time for us all to have a little chat. I'd like to god through some of my findings and discoveries with you, Mr. Black."

Harry waved his wand again, conjuring up four very comfortable-looking armchairs. He helped Neville into one of the chairs, then Black, then he and an utterly confused Hermione also sat down.

The door was suddenly slammed open, and there, Lupin stood, wand raised and ready.

"Ah, Professor Lupin," Harry said with a smile, conjuring up another chair next to Black. "I see that you found the parchment I left on your desk, further proving my theory. Please, have a seat."

Lupin stared for a moment, then moved into the room, staring at Black. Then Lupin spoke, in a very tense voice, "Where is he, Sirius?"

Black's face was quite expressionless. For a few seconds, he didn't move at all. Then, very slowly, he nodded straight at Neville. Harry glanced back at Neville, who looked bewildered, and a smile appeared on Harry's face as he lit his pipe.

"But then..." Lupin muttered, staring at Black so intently it seemed he was trying to read his mind, "...why hasn't he shown himself before now? Unless..." Lupin's eyes suddenly widened, as though he was seeing something beyond Black, something none of the rest could see, "...unless he was the one... unless you switched... without telling me?"

Very slowly, his sunken gaze never leaving Lupin's face, Black nodded.

Lupin did something strange then. He waved his wand, releasing Black from his bindings, and embraced him like a brother.

"I DON'T BELIEVE IT!" Hermione screamed.

Lupin let go of Black and turned to her. She had raised herself out of her chair and was pointing at Lupin, wild-eyed. "You... you-"

"Hermione-"

"-you and him!"

"Hermione, calm down-"

"I didn't tell anyone!" Hermione shrieked. "I've been covering up for you-"

"Hermione, listen to me, please," Lupin shouted. "I can explain-"

"NO!" Hermione screamed. "Harry, don't trust him, he's been helping Black get into the castle, he wants you dead too... he's a werewolf!"

There was a ringing silence. Everyone's eyes were now on Lupin, who looked remarkably calm, though rather pale.

"So?" Harry asked. Obviously, this wasn't what Hermione had expected, as she gawked at him. "I figured out that he was a werewolf the first time he was 'sick' during a full moon. Judging a man based on what he is Hermione? Tsk, tsk," he said, shaking his head in disappointment.

"Harry, what-"

"I was, admittedly, stumped by why Professor Lupin would be here, but I have finally figured it out," Harry interrupted, and Lupin couldn't help but smile.

"Hit me, then, Harry," he said, urging Harry to explain.

"Sit down, everyone."

Not surprisingly, everyone did exactly as they were told.

"Hermione, you're wrong. Professor Lupin has not been helping Black into the castle. They are merely old school friends. Black has been after the rat all along, and Professor Lupin had no idea about it. He no doubt knew that Black was here, with us, by watching the Marauder's Map. He knows how to work it because, unlike what we've been told, my father and Black didn't just have Peter with them, but also... Professor Lupin."

Lupin nodded in approval, and gestured for Harry to continue.

"Professor Lupin is a werewolf, and being that close to each other as they were, Black, my father and Peter no doubt figured out what he was. So, they trained themselves to become Animagi, to keep him company in this very place," Harry continued, and smiled when he saw that Lupin was surprised that he'd figured that out as well, while Black, Hermione and Neville just gaped at him.

"They adopted nicknames, and created the Marauder's Map. My father was Prongs," he pointed at Lupin, "Moony," he gestured for Black, "Padfoot, and..." Slowly, Harry turned around and pointed at the quivering bulge in Neville's pocket. "...Wormtail..."

"How did you figure it out?" Lupin asked, smiling again.

"I figured out that Scabbers was an Animagus when I saw Crookshanks' desperate attempts to catch him. Crookshanks is smart enough to play chess, and smart enough to tell if an animal is an Animagus or not, as Kneazels are excellent at detecting deception. I figured out that he was Peter when I got a closer look at him in Hagrid's hut. The biggest piece of Peter Pettigrew that could be found was a finger, the very same finger that has been cut off from Scabbers. Not to mention the scene of his supposed murder. If he really was exploded, then there would have been a lot more blood."

"Harry, why haven't you told us this?" Neville asked, wincing as he tried to stand up.

"I try not to advertise my theories until I have proof," Harry explained with a shrug. "What I want to know is why? I understand that you switched the Secret-Keeper to Peter, but why wouldn't you say anything when you were arrested?"

"I was too busy laughing," Black croaked. "That little sneak had managed to pull one over me, and managed to get me framed in the process. I had two choices: laugh at the hilarity of it all, or go berserk. I chose the former."

"And why didn't you say anything at your trial?"

Black shrugged. "Never got one."

"Hardly seems fair," Harry said. "Whatever happened to 'innocent until proven guilty?'"

"It went on hiatus back then," Black supplied with a hint of a grin on his face.

Lupin's face had hardened, and there was self-disgust in his voice. "All this year, I have been battling with myself, wondering whether I should tell Dumbledore that Sirius was an Animagus. But I didn't do it. Why? Because I was too cowardly. It would have meant admitting that I'd betrayed his trust while I was at school, admitting that I'd led others along with me... and Dumbledore's trust has meant everything to me. He let me into Hogwarts as a boy, and he gave me a job when I have been shunned all my adult life, unable to find paid work because of what I am. And so I convinced myself that Sirius was getting into the school using dark arts he learned from Voldemort, that being an Animagus had nothing to do with it... so, in a way, Snape's been right about me all along."

"Snape?" Black asked harshly, taking his eyes off Scabbers for the first time in minutes and looking up at Lupin. "What's Snape got to do with it?"

"He's here, Sirius," Lupin said heavily. "He's teaching here as well." He looked up at Harry, Neville, and Hermione.

"Professor Snape was at school with us. He fought very hard against my appointment to the Defense Against the Dark Arts job. He has been telling Dumbledore all year that I am not to be trusted. He has his reasons... you see, Sirius here played a trick on him which nearly killed him, a trick which involved me..."

Black made a derisive noise.

"It served him right," he sneered. "Sneaking around, trying to find out what we were up to... hoping he could get us expelled..."

"Severus was very interested in where I went every month." Lupin told Harry, Neville, and Hermione. "We were in the same year, you know, and we... er... didn't like each other very much. He especially disliked James. Jealous, I think, of James's talent on the Quidditch field... Anyway, Snape had seen me crossing the grounds with Madam Pomfrey one evening as she led me toward the Whomping Willow to transform. Sirius thought it would be, er, amusing, to tell Snape all he had to do was prod the knot on the tree trunk with a long stick, and he'd be able to get in after me. Well, of course, Snape tried it... if he'd got as far as this house, he'd have met a fully grown werewolf... but your father, who'd heard what Sirius had done, went after Snape and pulled him back, at great risk to his life... Snape glimpsed me, though, at the end of the tunnel. He was forbidden by Dumbledore to tell anybody, but from that time on he knew what I was..."

"So that's why Snape doesn't like you," Neville said slowly, "because he thought you were in on the joke?"

"That's right," a cold voice sneered from the wall behind Lupin.

Severus Snape was pulling off the Invisibility Cloak, his wand pointing directly at Lupin.

Hermione screamed.

"I found this at the base of the Whomping Willow," Snape said, throwing the cloak aside, careful to keep this wand pointing directly at Lupin's chest. "Very useful, Potter, I thank you..."

Snape was slightly breathless, but his face was full of suppressed triumph. "You're wondering, perhaps, how I knew you were here?" he asked, his eyes glittering. "I've just been to your office, Lupin. You forgot to take your potion tonight, so I took a gobletful along. And very lucky I did... lucky for me, I mean. Lying on your desk was a certain map. One glance at it told me all I needed to know. I saw you running along this passageway and out of sight."

"You didn't bloody clear it?" Harry asked with an accusing look at Lupin. He wanted Lupin and only Lupin to show up, and now that plan got blown to smithereens. Alright, he'd simply have to improvise…

"Severus-" Lupin began, but Snape overrode him.

"I've told the headmaster again and again that you're helping your old friend Black into the castle, Lupin, and here's the proof. Not even I dreamed you would have the nerve to use this old place as your hideout..."

"Severus, you're making a mistake," Lupin said urgently. "You haven't heard everything... I can explain... Sirius is not here to kill Harry-"

"Two more for Azkaban tonight," Snape said, his eyes now gleaming fanatically. "I shall be interested to see how Dumbledore takes this... He was quite convinced you were harmless, you know, Lupin... a tame werewolf..."

"You fool," Lupin said softly. "Is a schoolboy grudge worth putting an innocent man back inside Azkaban?"

BANG! Thin, snakelike cords burst from the end of Snape's wand and twisted themselves around Lupin's mouth, wrists, and ankles. He overbalanced and fell to the floor, unable to move.

With a roar of rage, Black started toward Snape, but Snape pointed his wand straight between Black's eyes.

"Give me a reason," he whispered. "Give me a reason to do it, and I swear I will."

Black stopped dead. It would have been impossible to say which face showed more hatred.

Hermione took an uncertain step toward Snape and said, in a very breathless voice, "Professor Snape... it wouldn't hurt to hear what they've got to say, w-would it?"

"Miss Granger, you are already facing suspension from this school," Snape spat. "You, Potter, and Longbottom are out-of-bounds, in the company of a convicted murderer and a werewolf. For once in your life, hold your tongue."

"But if... if there was a mistake..."

"KEEP QUIET, YOU STUPID GIRL!" Snape shouted, looking suddenly quite deranged. "DON'T TALK ABOUT WHAT YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND!"

"Expelliarmus!" Snape's wand went flying out of his hand, and then, three consecutive Stunners hit him in the chest. Snape was lifted off his feet and slammed into the wall, then slid down it to the floor, a trickle of blood oozing from under his hair. He had been knocked out.

"By Merlin, I truly do hate that man," Harry grumbled, shaking his head."

"Y-You attacked a teacher..." Hermione fretted worriedly. "Oh, you're going to be in so much trouble..."

"Rubbish. Once everything is cleared up, I'll probably get an Order of Merlin, I'm sure," Harry said calmly.

Lupin was still struggling against his bonds. Black bent down quickly and untied him. Lupin straightened up, rubbing his arms where the ropes had cut into them.

"Thank you, Harry," he said. "Well, I suppose we should find out if he really is Peter or not. Neville, give me Peter, please. Now."

Neville clutched Scabbers and was about to give him to Lupin, when a thought seemed to hit him.

"Wait a minute, there are millions of rats... how could he know which one he is after if he was locked up in Azkaban?"

"You know, Sirius, that's a fair question," Lupin said, turning to Black and frowning slightly. "How did you find out where he was?"

Black put one of his claw-like hands inside his robes and took out a crumpled piece of paper, which he smoothed flat and held out to show the others.

It was a photograph of Ron Weasley and his family that had appeared in the Daily Prophet the previous summer, and there, on Ron's shoulder, was Scabbers.

"How did you get this?" Lupin asked Black, thunderstruck.

"Fudge," Black said. "When he came to inspect Azkaban last year, he gave me his paper. And there was Peter, on the front page on this boy's shoulder... I knew him at once... how many times had I seen him transform? And the caption said the boy would be going back to Hogwarts... to where Harry was..."

"My God," Lupin said softly, staring from Scabbers to the picture in the paper and back again. "Of course... So simple... so brilliant... he cut it off himself?"

"Just before he transformed," Black said. "When I cornered him, he yelled for the whole street to hear that I'd betrayed Lily and James. Then, before I could curse him, he blew apart the street with the wand behind his back, killed everyone within twenty feet of himself, and sped down into the sewers with the other rats..."

"Didn't you ever hear, Neville?" Lupin asked. "The biggest bit of Peter they found was his finger."

"You mean, the only piece, which well convinced me that he had faked his death," Harry said, taking Scabbers from Neville and holding him out by the tail to Lupin. "I don't know the spell, so you will have to do it."

Lupin took him. Scabbers began to squeak without stopping, twisting and turning, his tiny black eyes bulging in his head. "Ready, Sirius?" Lupin asked.

Black had already retrieved Snape's wand from the bed. He approached Lupin and the struggling rat, and his wet eyes suddenly seemed to be burning in his face.

"Together?" he asked quietly.

"I think so," Lupin said, holding Scabbers tightly in one hand and his wand in the other. "On the count of three. One, two... THREE!"

A flash of blue-white light erupted from both wands. For a moment, Scabbers was frozen in midair, his small gray form twisting madly. The rat fell and hit the floor. There was another blinding flash of light and then...

It was like watching a speeded-up film of a growing tree. A head was shooting upward from the ground. Limbs were sprouting, and a moment later, a man was standing where Scabbers had been, cringing and wringing his hands. Crookshanks was spitting and snarling on the bed, the hair on his back standing up.

He was a very short man, hardly taller than Harry and Hermione. His thin, colorless hair was unkempt and there was a large bald patch on top. He had the shrunken appearance of a plump man who has lost a lot of weight in a short time. His skin looked grubby, almost like Scabbers's fur, and something of the rat lingered around his pointed nose and his very small, watery eyes. He looked around at them all, his breathing fast and shallow. Harry saw his eyes dart to the door and back again.

"Well, hello, Peter," Lupin said pleasantly, as though rats frequently erupted into old school friends around him. "Long time, no see."

"S-Sirius... R-Remus..." Even Pettigrew's voice was squeaky. Again, his eyes darted toward the door. "My friends... my old friends..."

Black's wand arm rose, but Lupin seized him around the wrist, gave him a warning took, then turned again to Pettigrew, his voice light and casual.

"We've been having a little chat, Peter, about what happened the night Lily and James died. You might have missed the finer points while you were squeaking around down there in Neville's pocket..."

"Remus," Pettigrew gasped, and Harry could see beads of sweat breaking out over his pasty face, "you don't believe him, do you...? He tried to kill me, Remus..."

"So we've heard," Lupin said more coldly. "I'd like to clear up one or two little matters with you, Peter, if you'll be so-"

"He's come to try and kill me again!" Pettigrew squeaked suddenly, pointing at Black, and Harry saw that he used his middle finger, because his index was missing. "He killed Lily and James and now he's going to kill me too... You've got to help me, Remus..."

Black's face looked more skull-like than ever as he stared at Pettigrew with his fathomless eyes.

"No one's going to try and kill you until we've sorted a few things out," Lupin said.

"Sorted things out?" Pettigrew squealed, looking wildly about him once more, eyes taking in the boarded windows and, again, the only door. "I knew he'd come after me! I knew he'd be back for me! I've been waiting for this for twelve years!"

"You knew Sirius was going to break out of Azkaban?" Lupin asked, his brow furrowed. "When nobody has ever done it before?"

"He's got dark powers the rest of us can only dream of!" Pettigrew shouted shrilly. "How else did he get out of there? I suppose He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named taught him a few tricks!"

Black started to laugh, a horrible, mirthless laugh that filled the whole room.

"Voldemort, teach me tricks?" he said.

Pettigrew flinched as though Black had brandished a whip at him.

"What, scared to hear your old master's name?" Black said. "I don't blame you, Peter. His lot aren't very happy with you, are they?"

"Don't know what you mean, Sirius..." Pettigrew muttered, his breathing faster than ever. His whole face was shining with sweat now.

"You haven't been hiding from me for twelve years," Black said. "You've been hiding from Voldemort's old supporters. I heard things in Azkaban, Peter... They all think you're dead, or you'd have to answer to them... I've heard them screaming all sorts of things in their sleep. Sounds like they think the double-crosser double-crossed them. Voldemort went to the Potters' on your information... and Voldemort met his downfall there. And not all Voldemort's supporters ended up in Azkaban, did they? There are still plenty out here, biding their time, pretending they've seen the error of their ways. If they ever got wind that you were still alive, Peter..."

"Don't know... what you're talking about..." Pettigrew said again, more shrilly than ever. He wiped his face on his sleeve and looked up at Lupin. "You don't believe this... this madness, Remus..."

"I must admit, Peter, I have difficulty in understanding why an innocent man would want to spend twelve years as a rat," Lupin said evenly.

"Innocent, but scared!" Pettigrew squealed. "If Voldemort's supporters were after me, it was because I put one of their best men in Azkaban... the spy, Sirius Black!"

Black's face contorted.

"How dare you," he growled, sounding suddenly like the bear-sized dog he had been. "I, a spy for Voldemort? When did I ever sneak around people who were stronger and more powerful than myself? But you, Peter... I'll never understand why I didn't see you were the spy from the start. You always liked big friends who'd look after you, didn't you? It used to be us... me and Remus... and James..."

Pettigrew wiped his face again. He was almost panting for breath.

"Me, a spy... must be out of your mind... never... don't know how you can say such a-"

"Lily and James only made you Secret-Keeper because I suggested it," Black hissed, so venomously that Pettigrew took a step backward. "I thought it was the perfect plan... a bluff... Voldemort would be sure to come after me, would never dream they'd use a weak, talentless thing like you... It must have been the finest moment of your miserable life, telling Voldemort you could hand him the Potters."

Pettigrew was muttering distractedly. Harry caught words like "far-fetched" and "lunacy," but he couldn't help paying more attention to the ashen color of Pettigrew's face and the way his eyes continued to dart toward the windows and door. He chuckled to himself as he chewed on his pipe. Everything about Pettigrew spoke of his guilt.

"Professor Lupin?" Hermione said timidly. "Can... can I say something?"

"Certainly, Hermione," Lupin said courteously.

"Well... Scabbers... I mean, this... this man... he's been sleeping in Harry's dormitory for six years. If he's working for V-Voldemort, how come he never tried to hurt Harry before now?"

"There!" Pettigrew said shrilly, pointing at Hermione with his maimed hand. "Thank you! You see, Remus? I have never hurt a hair of Harry's head! Why should I?"

"Because there was nothing to gain," Harry spoke calmly. "Everything I've heard so far suggests that you only do something if you have something to gain from it. You would gain nothing from killing me, now that Voldemort is weakened. But, had you heard anything about him growing stronger, I have no doubt you would've done something."

Pettigrew opened his mouth and closed it several times. He seemed to have lost the ability to talk.

"Er... Mr. Black... Sirius?" Hermione said.

Black jumped at being addressed like this and stared at Hermione as though he had never seen anything quite like her.

"If you don't mind me asking, how... how did you get out of Azkaban, if you didn't use Dark Magic?"

"Thank you!" Pettigrew gasped, nodding frantically at her. "Exactly! Precisely what I-"

But Lupin silenced him with a look. Black was frowning slightly at Hermione, but not as though he were annoyed with her. He seemed to be pondering his answer.

"I don't know how I did it," he said slowly. "I think the only reason I never lost my mind is that I knew I was innocent. That wasn't a happy thought, so the Dementors couldn't suck it out of me... but it kept me sane and knowing who I am... helped me keep my powers... so when it all became... too much... I could transform in my cell... become a dog. Dementors can't see, you know..." He swallowed. "They feel their way toward people by feeding off their emotions... They could tell that my feelings were less... less human, less complex when I was a dog... but they thought, of course, that I was losing my mind like everyone else in there, so it didn't trouble them. But I was weak, very weak, and I had no hope of driving them away from me without a wand... But then I saw Peter in that picture... I realized he was at Hogwarts with Harry... perfectly positioned to act, if one hint reached his ears that the Dark Side was gathering strength again..."

Pettigrew was shaking his head, mouthing noiselessly, but staring all the while at Black as though hypnotized.

"...ready to strike at the moment he could be sure of allies... and to deliver the last Potter to them. If he gave them Harry, who'd dare say he'd betrayed Lord Voldemort? He'd be welcomed back with honors... So you see, I had to do something. I was the only one who knew Peter was still alive...

"It was as if someone had lit a fire in my head, and the Dementors couldn't destroy it... It wasn't a happy feeling... it was an obsession... but it gave me strength, it cleared my mind. So, one night when they opened my door to bring food, I slipped past them as a dog... It's so much harder for them to sense animal emotions that they were confused... I was thin, very thin... thin enough to slip through the bars... I swam as a dog back to the mainland... I journeyed north and slipped into the Hogwarts grounds as a dog. I've been living in the forest ever since..."

He looked at Harry, who did not look away.

"No!"

Pettigrew had fallen to his knees as though Sirius' explanation had been his own death sentence. He shuffled forward on his knees, groveling, his hands clasped in front of him as though praying.

"Sirius... it's me... it's Peter... your friend... you wouldn't-"

Black kicked out and Pettigrew recoiled.

"There's enough filth on my robes without you touching them," Black hissed.

"Remus!" Pettigrew squeaked, turning to Lupin instead, writhing imploringly in front of him. "You don't believe this... wouldn't Sirius have told you they'd changed the plan?"

"Not if he thought I was the spy, Peter," Lupin said. "I assume that's why you didn't tell me, Sirius?" he said casually over Pettigrew's head.

"Forgive me, Remus," Black said.

"Not at all, Padfoot, old friend," Lupin, who was now rolling up his sleeves, said. "And will you, in turn, forgive me for believing you were the spy?"

"Of course," Black said, and the ghost of a grin flitted across his gaunt face. He, too, began rolling up his sleeves. "Shall we kill him together?"

"Yes, I think so," Lupin said grimly.

"You wouldn't... you won't..." Pettigrew gasped. And he scrambled around to Hermione, and seized the hem of her robes.

"Sweet girl... clever girl... you-you won't let them... Help me..."

Hermione pulled her robes out of Pettigrew's clutching hands and backed away against the wall, looking horrified.

Pettigrew knelt, trembling uncontrollably, and turned his head slowly toward Harry.

"Harry... Harry... you look just like your father... just like him..."

"HOW DARE YOU SPEAK TO HARRY?" Black roared. "HOW DARE YOU FACE HIM? HOW DARE YOU TALK ABOUT JAMES IN FRONT OF HIM?"

"Harry," Pettigrew whispered, shuffling toward him, hands outstretched. "Harry, James wouldn't have wanted me killed... James would have understood, Harry... he would have shown me mercy..."

Both Black and Lupin strode forward, seized Pettigrew's shoulders, and threw him backward onto the floor. He sat there, twitching with terror, staring up at them.

"You sold Lily and James to Voldemort," Black, who was shaking too, said. "Do you deny it?"

Pettigrew burst into tears. It was horrible to watch, like an oversized, balding baby, cowering on the floor.

"Sirius, Sirius, what could I have done? The Dark Lord... you have no idea... he has weapons you can't imagine... I was scared, Sirius, I was never brave like you and Remus and James. I never meant it to happen... He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named forced me..."

"DON'T LIE!" Black bellowed. "YOU'D BEEN PASSING INFORMATION TO HIM FOR A YEAR BEFORE LILY AND JAMES DIED! YOU WERE HIS SPY!"

"He... he was taking over everywhere!" Pettigrew gasped. "Wh-What was there to be gained by refusing him?"

"What was there to be gained by fighting the most evil wizard who has ever existed?" Black asked with a terrible fury in his face. "Only innocent lives, Peter!"

"You don't understand!" Pettigrew whined. "He would have killed me, Sirius!"

"THEN YOU SHOULD HAVE DIED!" Black roared. "DIED RATHER THAN BETRAY YOUR FRIENDS, AS WE WOULD HAVE DONE FOR YOU!"

Black and Lupin stood shoulder to shoulder, wands raised.

"You should have realized," Lupin said quietly, "if Voldemort didn't kill you, we would. Good-bye, Peter."

Hermione covered her face with her hands and turned to the wall.

"Stop," Harry said suddenly. He walked forward, placing himself in front Pettigrew, facing the wands. "You can't kill him," he said.

Black and Lupin both looked staggered.

"Harry, this piece of vermin is the reason you have no parents," Black snarled. "This cringing bit of filth would have seen you die too, without turning a hair. You heard him. His own stinking skin meant more to him than your whole family."

"I know," Harry said, nodding. "We'll take him up to the castle. We'll hand him over to the Dementors... He can go to Azkaban... but don't kill him."

"Harry!" Pettigrew gasped, and he flung his arms around Harry's knees. "You... thank you... it's more than I deserve... thank you!"

"Get off me," Harry spat, throwing Pettigrew's hands off him in disgust. "I'm not doing this for you. I'm doing it because... I think you were right. My dad wouldn't have wanted them to become killers, just for you. You don't deserve it."

No one moved or made a sound except Pettigrew, whose breath was coming in wheezes as he clutched his chest. Black and Lupin were looking at each other. Then, with one movement, they lowered their wands.

"You're the only person who has the right to decide, Harry," Black said. "But think... think what he did..."

"No matter how much I would love to see him swing from a noose, he can go to Azkaban," Harry repeated. "I think he owes a good 12 years already."

Pettigrew was still wheezing behind him.

"Very well," Lupin said. "Stand aside, Harry."

Harry raised an eyebrow.

"I'm going to tie him up," Lupin said. "That's all, I swear."

Harry stepped out of the way. Thin cords shot from Lupin's wand this time, and next moment, Pettigrew was wriggling on the floor, bound and gagged.

"But if you transform, Peter," Black growled, his own wand pointing at Pettigrew too, "we will kill you. You agree, Harry?"

Harry looked down at the pitiful figure on the floor and nodded so that Pettigrew could see him.

"Right," Lupin said, suddenly businesslike. "Let's go, then."

"What about Professor Snape?" Hermione asked in a small voice, looking down at Snape's prone figure.

"There's nothing seriously wrong with him," Lupin said, bending over Snape and checking his pulse. "You were just a little... overenthusiastic. Still out cold. Er, perhaps it will be best if we don't revive him until we're safety back in the castle. We can take him like this..."

He muttered, "Mobilicorpus." As though invisible strings were tied to Snape's wrists, neck, and knees, he was pulled into a standing position, head still lolling unpleasantly, like a grotesque puppet. He hung a few inches above the ground, his limp feet dangling. Lupin picked up the Invisibility Cloak and handed it to Harry, who tucked it safely into his pocket.

"And two of us should be chained to this," Black said, nudging Pettigrew with his toe. "Just to make sure."

"I'll do it," Lupin said.

"And me," Neville said savagely, limping forward.

"No," Harry said, moving to stand in front of Lupin. "Full moon tonight."

Lupin's eyes widened. "The potion!"

"You should probably stay here, while we bring the rat to the castle," Black said. Lupin nodded.

"I can do it," Hermione volunteered.

Black conjured heavy manacles from thin air, and soon Pettigrew was upright again, left arm chained to Harry's right, right arm to Neville's left. Crookshanks leapt lightly off the bed and led the way out of the room, his bottlebrush tail held jauntily high.

Harry had never been part of a stranger group. Crookshanks led the way down the stairs, Hermione, Pettigrew, and Neville went next, looking like entrants in a six-legged race. Next came Professor Snape, drifting creepily along, his toes hitting each stair as they descended, held up by his own wand, which was being pointed at him by Sirius, and Harry brought up the rear.

Getting back into the tunnel was difficult. Hermione, Pettigrew, and Neville had to turn sideways to manage it. Hermione and Neville still had Pettigrew covered with their wands. Harry could see them edging awkwardly along the tunnel in single file. Crookshanks was still in the lead. Harry went right after Black, who was still making Snape drift along ahead of them. He kept bumping his lolling head on the low ceiling. Harry had the impression Black was making no effort to prevent this.

"You know what this means?" Black asked abruptly to Harry as they made their slow progress along the tunnel. "Turning Pettigrew in?"

"You're free," Harry said.

"Yes..." Black said. "But I'm also... I don't know if anyone ever told you... I'm your godfather."

"Yeah, I knew that," Harry said, chewing on his pipe.

"Well... your parents appointed me your guardian," Black said stiffly. "If anything happened to them..."

Harry waited. Did Black mean what he thought he meant?

"I'll understand, of course, if you want to stay with your aunt and uncle," said Black. "But... well... think about it. Once my name's cleared... if you wanted a... a different home..."

Some sort of explosion took place in the pit of Harry's stomach.

"What, live with you?" he asked, accidentally cracking his head on a bit of rock protruding from the ceiling.

"Of course, I thought you wouldn't want to," Black said quickly. "I understand, I just thought I'd-"

Black turned right around to look at him. Snape's head was scraping the ceiling but Black didn't seem to care.

"You want to?" he said. "You mean it?"

"Yeah, I mean it!" Harry said.

Black's gaunt face broke into the first true smile Harry had seen upon it. The difference it made was startling, as though a person ten years younger were shining through the starved mask. For a moment, he was recognizable as the man who had laughed at Harry's parents' wedding.

They did not speak again until they had reached the end of the tunnel. Crookshanks darted up first. He had evidently pressed his paw to the knot on the trunk, because Hermione, Pettigrew, and Neville clambered upward without any sound of savaging branches.

Black saw Snape up through the hole, then stood back for Harry to pass. At last, all of them were out.

The grounds were very dark now. The only light came from the distant windows of the castle. Without a word, they set off. Pettigrew was still wheezing and occasionally whimpering. Harry's mind was buzzing. He was going to live with Sirius Black, his parents' best friend... He felt dazed... Then, he realized something.

"Well, it'd be more like you coming to live with me," he reasoned. "See, I have my own place already."

"Well done, my boy, well done!" Cornelius Fudge said, vigorously shaking Harry's hand. "I should have known that you would solve this little mystery. An Order of Merlin, Third Class, I believe is in order for this!"

"Thank you, Minister, but I didn't do it for an award," Harry said as he watched the Aurors carefully guarding Peter Pettigrew, who was being escorted off the grounds, while Sirius was merely standing on the lawns, taking long, deep breaths of fresh, free air.

"But, uh, Harry, about the attack upon Severus..."

"The man's judgment was clearly clouded by a childhood grudge, and he would have allowed two innocent men get the Dementor's Kiss simply because of that. I couldn't let that happen," Harry defended simply.

"Yes, yes, true, very true," Fudge agreed, nodding. "Well, no harm done, I suppose, in light of what has transpired. I must be off to the Ministry, I have many things to do, papers to be signed, orders to be given, you know."

"Well, I wouldn't want to hold you up. I'm sure your wife is eager to sit down for dinner. Haven't done that in a while, have you?" Harry asked with a smirk.

Fudge, who had been shaking Harry's hand again, froze as he stared at Harry in surprise. Then, he laughed.

"Oh, very good, Harry, very good! Well, I must be off! Good night, Harry. Mr. Black, if you would, please, come with me..."

"I'd call this a very successful night, wouldn't you say?" Harry asked Neville as they watched Sirius and Fudge heading down the path to Hogsmeade. Neville was leaning heavily on a walking stick that Harry had conjured for him.

"Successful?" Neville asked in disbelief. "Thanks to you, I got my bloody leg broken, and I have a Herbology homework that needs doing!"

SIRIUS BLACK INNOCENT! POTTER SOLVED IT IN A MINUTE!

"Rita Skeeter is particularly vicious against the Ministry in this article," Harry said as he sat in the passenger seat of a Ministry-issued car, given to Sirius, along with a large amount of Galleons, by the Minister as compensation for the 12 years he spent in Azkaban.

Sirius was glad to be free and all, but he'd been hoping for something more being done to compensate him, like for action to be taken against Bartemius Crouch, the Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation, formerly Head of the Department for Magical Law Enforcement, who had thrown him into Azkaban without a trial.

"This is your flat?" Sirius asked as they entered 221B Diagon Alley, and he saw just how messy the place was. Harry hummed with a nod and hung Hedwig's cage up in its usual spot by the window, then set his trunk down and took out his violin. Without a word to Sirius, he moved over to his favorite armchair in front of the fireplace, sat down, and started playing.

"This is going to take some getting used to..." he heard Sirius mutter behind him.


	13. Chapter 13

The summer of ninety-seven was rather eventful for Harry Potter. He took a summer job, by placing an ad in the Daily Prophet, about hiring him as a Consultant Detective. After his capture of Pettigrew, he noticed, he had become very popular, and received owls daily, asking for help. He charged five Sickles a day, as he didn't really need much more.

Sirius lived with him in his flat, constantly complaining about Harry's mess, but doing nothing to clean up. In fact, he added to the mess. He probably just saw it as his godfatherly duty to complain.

He woke up on July fifteenth at five o'clock, stretching in his bed. His room was simple: A bed, a closet, a desk, a drawer, and a music stand.

On the walls were several framed newspaper clippings of the Daily Prophet. Headlines like, 'BOY-WHO-LIVES SOLVES DUBLIN MURDERS,' and, 'HARRY POTTER FINDS MINISTER'S WIFE'S MISSING DIAMONDS,' could be seen, with pictures of Harry shaking hands with different people, Minister Fudge included.

Harry smiled to himself as he got out of bed, walking over to his music stand and kneeling, where his violin was in its case. He took it out, along with his bow, and started practicing his violin.

Within moments, there was a banging on the wall.

"Will you stop playing that infernal thing? I'm trying to sleep here!" came Sirius' muffled voice. Harry chuckled.

"You only have one life, Sirius! Why waste it on sleep? There's plenty of time for that when you're dead! But if you must, how about something a little more soothing?"

Harry started playing a slow, calming tune. No complaints came from Sirius. In fact, Harry could soon hear his snores through the wall.

"Neville, old boy, I may have a great story for you!" Harry exclaimed happily as Neville stepped into the sitting room of 221B Diagon Alley on the twenty-sixth, finding three people inside: Harry Potter, Sirius Black, and Rufus Scrimgeour. "Come in, come in!" Harry urged.

"Sirius," Neville greeted with a nod, then nodded to Scrimgeour. "Mr. Scrimgeour."

Neville, who'd had his leg broken so badly that he still had a limp, had to use a walking stick, which Sirius had bought him to tell him he was sorry. It was a walking stick made of a rare African snakewood, hiding a blade of high-tensile steel.

"Continue, Mr. Scrimgeour," Harry said, gesturing for Scrimgeour to talk.

"As I was saying," Scrimgeour said after a glance at Neville, "there was a riot at the Quidditch World Cup. A bunch of people dressed up as Death Eaters and-"

"Sorry," Harry interrupted, his fingertips pressed together as he sat in his armchair. "Are you sure the were just dressed up, and not real Death Eaters?"

"I'm sure," Scrimgeour said. "We've rounded up all the Death Eaters from the war."

"Mhmm," Harry agreed, plainly showing that he disagreed. "Continue, please."

Scrimgeour was clearly displeased with the very thought of talking to Harry about this, but he continued nonetheless.

"Anyway, some bastard decided it'd be good sport to fire the Dark Mark into the air, scaring the life out of everyone. As if their Muggle toying wasn't enough..."

"Did you bring what I asked?" Harry asked, and Scrimgeour nodded, handing over a folder. Harry opened it, to reveal several pictures of dirt, with hundreds of footprints on them. Harry gave off small noises as he got up from his chair and spread them all out on the coffee table, looking from picture to picture.

"And these three would belong to the one who sent up the Dark Mark?" Harry asked, gesturing for three pictures that lay in a separate pile. Scrimgeour nodded. "Well, I can tell you that most of the men you're looking for are in the prime of their lives. I could tell you their individual heights, but that would only be wasting my time and yours, since you're never going to catch anyone but a single one of them."

"And that is...?" Scrimgeour asked. Harry grabbed a picture and held it up.

"Handmade shoes, their pattern unique. A triangle of crosses on the heel, square-toed with triple lines around the soles, the very same type of shoes Walden Macnair wore on the day I recovered Mrs. Fudge's missing diamonds. Coincidence?"

"Those shoes could belong to anyone," Scrimgeour said, and Harry sighed.

"Did you not hear me? Hand... made... Pattern... unique..." he spoke, as to a four-year old. Scrimgeour bristled and turned on the spot, walking right out the door without so much as a "Good-bye."

Harry moved over to the window and watched Scrimgeour Apparate away. "Delightful fellow, isn't he?"

"Another front-pager, no doubt," Sirius said, rising from Neville's usual armchair to allow him to sit. "Well, boys, I have to go. Can't sit here and grow old when I can be out there and grow old."

Harry waved him off. "Don't get too old on me, though."

"No chance."

"This man intrigues me," Harry said, gesturing for the three photographs of the Dark Mark summoner's feet. "About six foot one, wearing mismatched shoes, both from a long time ago, I'd say about fifteen years old."

"Who runs around in fifteen year old shoes?" Neville asked, limping over to look at the pictures. Harry hummed as he chewed on his pipe.

"Who indeed..."

The thick rain splattering the windows of the Hogwarts Express made it very difficult to see out of them. Neville sat reading the Daily Prophet, smiling to himself.

"Well, you made the front page," he said, showing it to Harry, who took the newspaper.

"'Potter strikes again! Identified Macnair by his shoes!' My, they do make it sound marvelous, don't they?"

"Shh!" Hermione whispered suddenly, pressing her finger to her lips and pointing toward the compartment next to theirs. Harry and Neville listened, and heard a familiar drawling voice drifting in through the open door.

"...Father actually considered sending me to Durmstrang rather than Hogwarts, you know. He knows the headmaster, you see. Well, you know his opinion of Dumbledore, the man's such a Mudblood-lover, and Durmstrang doesn't admit that sort of riffraff. But Mother didn't like the idea of me going to school so far away. Father says Durmstrang takes a far more sensible line than Hogwarts about the Dark Arts. Durmstrang students actually learn them, not just the defense rubbish we do..."

Hermione got up, tiptoed to the compartment door, and slid it shut, blocking out Malfoy's voice.

"So he thinks Durmstrang would have suited him, does he?" she said angrily. "I wish he had gone, then we wouldn't have to put up with him."

"I never thought Malfoy would ever rile you up, Hermione," Neville said with a snicker. "And he wasn't even talking to you."

Hermione just huffed and crossed her arms.

"Any more news regarding the fifteen year old shoes?" Neville asked, and at Hermione's puzzled look added, "Harry saw the prints of a pair of mismatched, fifteen year old shoes in a photograph at the World Cup. The owner summoned the Dark Mark."

"Well, I read the Auror report," Harry said, stuffing his pipe with tobacco as Hermione opened the window a tad. Harry struck a match against the sole of his shoe and lit his pipe. "According to that, the men who Apparated to the location fired Stunners in every direction, and all they found was a Stunned house-elf, belonging to Bartemius Crouch, Head of the Department for International Magical Cooperation."

"A house-elf?" Neville asked and snorted. "As if Voldemort would ever teach a bloody house-elf how to summon the Dark Mark..."

"Exactly, but nonetheless, Crouch gave her clothes right there on the spot, either for summoning the Mark, or for holding a stolen wand."

The rain became heavier and heavier as the train moved farther north. The sky was so dark and the windows so steamy that the lanterns were lit by midday. The lunch trolley came rattling along the corridor, and Harry bought a large stack of Chocolate Frogs for them to share.

"Oh, right," Hermione said suddenly. "Congratulations, Harry, for capturing MacNair."

"Thank you, Hermione," Harry said with a smile, then sighed as he puffed on his pipe.

"The real mystery here, though, is what's going to happen at Hogwarts this year..."

"Something's happening at Hogwarts?" Neville asked. Harry nodded.

"Sirius told me, but he didn't want to tell me what it was, saying things like, 'Don't wanna ruin the surprise,' and, 'You're smart enough to figure it out.' But it's hard to figure it out when you don't have any clues..."

As the train pulled into Hogsmeade station, and the doors opened, there was a rumble of thunder overhead. Hermione bundled up Crookshanks in her cloak, and Harry and Neville put on their hats as they left the train, heads bent and eyes narrowed against the downpour. The rain was now coming down so thick and fast that it was as though buckets of ice-cold water were being emptied repeatedly over their heads.

"Hello, Hagrid!" Harry yelled, seeing a gigantic silhouette at the far end of the platform.

"All righ', Harry?" Hagrid bellowed back, waving. "See yeh at the feast if we don' drown!"

"Oooh, I wouldn't fancy crossing the lake in this weather," Hermione said fervently, shivering as they inched slowly along the dark platform with the rest of the crowd. A hundred horseless carriages stood waiting for them outside the station. Harry, Neville and Hermione climbed gratefully into one of them, the door shut with a snap, and a few moments later, with a great lurch, the long procession of carriages was rumbling and splashing its way up the track toward Hogwarts Castle.

Through the gates, flanked with statues of winged boars, and up the sweeping drive the carriages trundled, swaying dangerously in what was fast becoming a gale. Leaning against the window, Harry could see Hogwarts coming nearer, its many lighted windows blurred and shimmering behind the thick curtain of rain. Lightning flashed across the sky as their carriage came to a halt before the great oak front doors, which stood at the top of a flight of stone steps. People who had occupied the carriages in front were already hurrying up the stone steps into the castle. Harry, Hermione, and Neville jumped down from their carriage and dashed up the steps too, looking up only when they were safely inside the cavernous, torch-lit entrance hall, with its magnificent marble staircase.

"Blimey," a fellow seventh-year behind Harry said, shaking his head and sending water everywhere, "if that keeps up the lake's going to overflow. I'm soak-"

A large, red, water-filled balloon had dropped from out of the ceiling onto the seventh year's head, who turned out to be Ron Weasley, and exploded.

"Neville," Harry said, sensing what was going to happen next. He whipped out his wand and tapped it against Neville's walking stick.

Neville swiftly turned around and swung his walking stick, catching a water balloon that was heading for him. However, because of the cushioning charm Harry placed on the walking stick, the balloon didn't break, and was instead sent flying back at the offender, the madly cackling Poltergeist, Peeves.

Peeves' malicious grin was wiped away as the balloon smashed into his face, and sent him sailing back, sputtering and cursing.

"Good shot, Neville," Harry said, patting Neville on the shoulder. "Jolly good shot."

"PEEVES!" an angry voice yelled. Professor McGonagall had come dashing out of the Great Hall. However, she skidded on the wet floor and grabbed Hermione around the neck to stop herself from falling.

"Ouch... sorry, Miss Granger..."

"That's all right, Professor!" Hermione gasped, massaging her throat.

"Peeves, get-!" Professor McGonagall barked, straightening her pointed hat and glaring upward through her square-rimmed spectacles. She stopped, however, when she saw Peeves flying away, still cursing like a sailor. "Oh... What happened here?"

"It was Neville, Professor," Harry said, patting his friend on the back. "A cushioning charm, cast by yours truly, and an expertly timed backhand swing with my friend's walking stick gave Peeves a taste of his own medicine. I don't think he's very used to getting wet."

"Oh..." McGonagall said. "Well, good work, Mr. Potter. Five points for Gryffindor each, for diffusing the situation."

Harry and Neville shook hands, looking very pleased with themselves.

The Great Hall looked its usual splendid self, decorated for the start-of-term feast. Golden plates and goblets gleamed by the light of hundreds and hundreds of candles, floating over the tables in midair. The four long House tables were packed with chattering students, and at the top of the Hall, the staff sat along one side of a fifth table, facing their pupils. It was much warmer in here. Harry, Neville, and Hermione walked past the Slytherins, the Ravenclaws, and the Hufflepuffs, and sat down with the rest of the Gryffindors at the far side of the Hall, next to Nearly Headless Nick, the Gryffindor ghost. Pearly white and semitransparent, Nick was dressed tonight in his usual doublet, but with a particularly large ruff, which served the dual purpose of looking extra-festive, and insuring that his head didn't wobble too much on his partially severed neck.

"Good evening," he said, beaming at them.

"Had a pleasant summer, Sir Nicholas?" Harry asked politely.

"Indeed, though Peeves has been a bit rowdier than usual, and I was declined membership in the Headless Hunt yet again, but other than that, I have had a pleasant summer. And you, Harry?"

"Very pleasant," Harry said, smiling. He reached into frock coat and found that his pipe, along with the tobacco in it, was soaking wet. He groaned to himself and started tapping his foot against the stone floor, wanting the food to appear as quickly as possible.

For this occasion, Harry was attired in a black, double-breasted frock coat with satin-faced lapels, a white soft-collar shirt, a patterned silk waistcoat, and his blue-and-white-striped herringbone silk scarf, along with his usual black, high-waisted trousers and handmade leather shoes.

Harry looked up at the staff table. There seemed to be rather more empty seats there than usual. Hagrid, of course, was still fighting his way across the lake with the first years, Professor McGonagall was presumably supervising the drying of the entrance hall floor, but there was another empty chair too, that of the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher.

They had never yet had a Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher who had lasted more than three terms. Harry's favorites by far had been Professor Lupin, who had resigned last year, and Professor Brown, who had also retired after their third year. He looked up and down the staff table. There was definitely no new face there.

"Maybe they couldn't get anyone!" Hermione said, looking anxious.

Harry scanned the table more carefully. Tiny little Professor Flitwick was sitting on a large pile of cushions beside Professor Sprout, the Herbology teacher, whose hat was askew over her flyaway gray hair. She was talking to Professor Sinistra of the Astronomy department. On Professor Sinistra's other side was the sallow-faced, hook-nosed, greasy-haired Potions master, Snape. On Snape's other side was an empty seat, which Harry guessed was Professor McGonagall's. Next to it, and in the very center of the table, sat Professor Dumbledore, his sweeping silver hair and beard shining in the candlelight, his magnificent deep green robes embroidered with many stars and moons. The tips of Dumbledore's long, thin fingers were together and he was resting his chin upon them, staring up at the ceiling through his half-moon spectacles as though lost in thought. Harry glanced up at the ceiling too. It was enchanted to look like the sky outside, and he had never seen it look this stormy. Black and purple clouds were swirling across it, and as another thunderclap sounded outside, a fork of lightning flashed across it.

"I wish they would hurry up," Neville said. "I'm getting hungry."

The words were no sooner out of his mouth than the doors of the Great Hall opened and silence fell. Professor McGonagall was leading a long line of first years up to the top of the Hall. If Harry, Neville, and Hermione were wet, it was nothing to how these first years looked. They appeared to have swum across the lake rather than sailed. All of them were shivering with a combination of cold and nerves as they filed along the staff table and came to a halt in a line facing the rest of the school, all of them except the smallest of the lot, a boy with mousy hair, who was wrapped in what Harry recognized as Hagrid's moleskin overcoat. The coat was so big for him that it hooked as though he were draped in a furry black circus tent. His small face protruded from over the collar, looking almost painfully excited.

When he had lined up with his terrified-looking peers, he caught Colin Creevey's eye, gave a double thumbs-up, and mouthed, 'I fell in the lake!' He looked positively delighted about it.

Professor McGonagall now placed a three-legged stool on the ground before the first years and, on top of it, an extremely old, dirty patched wizard's hat. The first years stared at it. So did everyone else. For a moment, there was silence. Then a long tear near the brim opened wide like a mouth, and the hat broke into song:

A thousand years or more ago,

When I was newly sewn,

There lived four wizards of renown,

Whose names are still well known:

Bold Gryffindor, from wild moor,

Fair Ravenclaw, from glen,

Sweet Hufflepuff, from valley broad,

Shrewd Slytherin, from fin.

They shared a wish, a hope, a dream,

They hatched a daring plan

To educate young sorcerers

Thus Hogwarts School began.

Now each of these four founders

Formed their own house, for each

Did value different virtues

In the ones they had to teach.

By Gryffindor, the bravest were

Prized far beyond the rest;

For Ravenclaw, the cleverest

Would always be the best;

For Hufflepuff, hard workers were

Most worthy of admission;

And power-hungry Slytherin

Loved those of great ambition.

While still alive they did divide

Their favorites from the throng,

Yet how to pick the worthy ones

When they were dead and gone?

'Twas Gryffindor who found the way,

He whipped me off his head

The founders put some brains in me

So I could choose instead!

Now slip me snug about your ears,

I've never yet been wrong,

I'll have a look inside your mind

And tell where you belong!

The Great Hall rang with applause as the Sorting Hat finished.

After a painfully long Sorting that seemed to last forever, Professor Dumbledore had finally gotten to his feet. He was smiling around at the students, his arms opened wide in welcome.

"I have only two words to say to you," he told them, his deep voice echoing around the Hall. "Tuck in."

"Hear, hear!" Harry and Neville said loudly as the empty dishes filled magically before their eyes.

Sir Nicholas watched mournfully as Harry, Neville, and Hermione loaded their own plates.

"Aaah, that's better," Neville said, filling his plate with food.

"You're lucky there's a feast at all tonight, you know," Sir Nicholas said. "There was trouble in the kitchens earlier."

"Why? What happened?" Harry asked, after swallowing a sizable chunk of steak.

"Peeves, of course," Sir Nicholas said, shaking his head, which wobbled dangerously. He pulled his ruff a little higher up on his neck. "The usual argument, you know. He wanted to attend the feast. Well, it's quite out of the question, you know what he's like, utterly uncivilized, can't see a plate of food without throwing it. We held a ghost's council, and the Fat Friar was all for giving him the chance, but most wisely, in my opinion, the Bloody Baron put his foot down."

The Bloody Baron was the only person at Hogwarts who could really control Peeves.

"Yeah, we thought Peeves seemed hacked off about something," Neville said, grinning. "But it earned us ten points, and we're already in the lead."

"So what did he do in the kitchens?" Hermione asked.

"Oh the usual," Sir Nicholas said, shrugging. "Wreaked havoc and mayhem. Pots and pans everywhere. Place swimming in soup. Terrified the house-elves out of their wits-"

Clang.

Hermione had knocked over her golden goblet. Pumpkin juice spread steadily over the tablecloth, staining several feet of white linen orange, but Hermione paid no attention.

"There are house-elves here?" she asked, staring, horror-struck, at Sir Nicholas. "Here at Hogwarts?"

"Certainly," Sir Nicholas said, looking surprised at her reaction. "The largest number in any dwelling in Britain, I believe. Over a hundred."

"I've never seen one!" Hermione said.

"Well, they hardly ever leave the kitchen by day, do they?" Sir Nicholas said. "They come out at night to do a bit of cleaning... see to the fires and so on... I mean, you're not supposed to see them, are you? That's the mark of a good house-elf, isn't it, that you don't know it's there?"

Hermione stared at him.

"But they get paid?" she said. "They get holidays, don't they? And... and sick leave, and pensions, and everything?"

Sir Nicholas chortled so much that his ruff slipped and his head flopped off, dangling on the inch or so of ghostly skin and muscle that still attached it to his neck.

"Sick leave and pensions?" he asked, pushing his head back onto his shoulders and securing it once more with his ruff. "House-elves don't want sick leave and pensions!"

Hermione looked down at her hardly touched plate of food, then put her knife and fork down upon it and pushed it away from her.

"Oh, come on, Hermione," Neville said. "You won't get them sick leave by starving yourself!"

"Slave labor," Hermione said, breathing hard through her nose. "That's what made this dinner. Slave labor."

And she refused to eat another bite.

"Hermione," Harry said seriously. "Didn't you hear what Sir Nicholas said?" he asked. "They don't want it."

"They're just confused," Hermione argued. "If someone would show them what being free is like-"

"They love work," Harry interrupted. "They hate being free. Are you going to force something they don't want on them? That sounds an awful lot like the making of a dictator to me."

"But they deserve to be free!" Hermione argued again. Harry's eyes narrowed ever so slightly.

"That's an insult to a house-elf," he said. "And Hogwarts is the best place ever for a house-elf, where they are treated kindly. If they would just ask Dumbledore for pay, then he would, without a doubt, pay them. But they don't want it. Don't try to fight this, Hermione. You will just make an enemies among the house-elves. Not friends."

"But-"

"Hermione," Harry interrupted, "I'm serious."

"No, you're not," Neville said, grinning. "Your godfather is."

"By the way," Harry said, turning to Neville. "I liked your new book. A bit more romanticism than I would have liked, but very good."

"Thank you," Neville said, tipping his hat to Harry. This evening, he was wearing an elegant, long blue wool coat with highly distinctive lapels, which with its high collar hid his shirt from view. In his pocket, the chain of his father's old watch that he was given by his grandmother could be seen. Harry himself had been given his own father's old watch by Sirius when he turned seventeen.

The rain was still drumming heavily against the high, dark glass. Another clap of thunder shook the windows, and the stormy ceiling flashed, illuminating the golden plates as the remains of the first course vanished and were replaced, instantly, with puddings.

When the puddings too had been demolished, and the last crumbs had faded off the plates, leaving them sparkling clean, Albus Dumbledore got to his feet again. The buzz of chatter filling the Hall ceased almost at once, so that only the howling wind and pounding rain could be heard.

"So!" Dumbledore said, smiling around at them all. "Now that we are all fed and watered, I must once more ask for your attention, while I give out a few notices. Mr. Filch, the caretaker, has asked me to tell you that the list of objects forbidden inside the castle has this year been extended to include Screaming Yo-yos, Fanged Frisbees, and Ever-Bashing Boomerangs. The full list comprises some four hundred and thirty-seven items, I believe, and can be viewed in Mr. Filch's office, if anybody would like to check it."

The corners of Dumbledore's mouth twitched. He continued, "As ever, I would like to remind you all that the forest on the grounds is out-of-bounds to students, as is the village of Hogsmeade to all below third year. It is also my painful duty to inform you that the Inter-House Quidditch Cup will not take place this year."

Harry glanced around, and saw that most of the Quidditch nuts of his year were mouthing wordlessly, apparently too appalled to speak. Dumbledore went on, "This is due to an event that will be starting in October, and continuing throughout the school year, taking up much of the teachers' time and energy, but I am sure you will all enjoy it immensely. I have great pleasure in announcing that this year at Hogwarts-"

But at that moment, there was a deafening rumble of thunder and the doors of the Great Hall banged open.

A man stood in the doorway, leaning upon a long staff, shrouded in a black traveling cloak. Every head in the Great Hall swiveled toward the stranger, suddenly brightly illuminated by a fork of lightning that flashed across the ceiling. He lowered his hood, shook out a long mane of grizzled, dark gray hair, then began to walk up toward the teachers' table.

A dull clunk echoed through the Hall on his every other step. He reached the end of the top table, turned right, and limped heavily toward Dumbledore. Another flash of lightning crossed the ceiling. Hermione gasped.

The lightning had thrown the man's face into sharp relief, and it was a face unlike any Harry had ever seen. It looked as though it had been carved out of weathered wood by someone who had only the vaguest idea of what human faces are supposed to look like, and was none too skilled with a chisel. Every inch of skin seemed to be scarred. The mouth looked like a diagonal gash, and a large chunk of the nose was missing. But it was the man's eyes that made him frightening.

One of them was small, dark, and beady. The other was large, round as a coin, and a vivid, electric blue. The blue eye was moving ceaselessly, without blinking, and was rolling up, down, and from side to side, quite independently of the normal eye - and then it rolled right over, pointing into the back of the man's head, so that all they could see was whiteness.

The stranger reached Dumbledore. He stretched out a hand that was as badly scarred as his face, and Dumbledore shook it, muttering words Harry couldn't hear. He seemed to be making some inquiry of the stranger, who shook his head unsmilingly and replied in an undertone. Dumbledore nodded and gestured the man to the empty seat on his right-hand side.

The stranger sat down, shook his mane of dark gray hair out of his face, pulled a plate of sausages toward him, raised it to what was left of his nose, and sniffed it. He then took a small knife out of his pocket, speared a sausage on the end of it, and began to eat. His normal eye was fixed upon the sausages, but the blue eye was still darting restlessly around in its socket, taking in the Hall and the students.

"May I introduce our new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher?" Dumbledore said brightly into the silence. "Professor Moody."

It was usual for new staff members to be greeted with applause, but none of the staff or students chapped except Dumbledore and Hagrid, who both put their hands together and applauded, but the sound echoed dismally into the silence, and they stopped fairly quickly. Everyone else seemed too transfixed by Moody's bizarre appearance to do more than stare at him.

"Moody?" Neville muttered to Harry. "Mad-Eye Moody? The famous Auror?"

"Must be," Harry said in a low, awed voice.

"What happened to him?" Hermione whispered. "What happened to his face?"

"Dunno," Neville whispered back, watching Moody with fascination.

Moody seemed totally indifferent to his less-than-warm welcome. Ignoring the jug of pumpkin juice in front of him, he reached again into his traveling cloak, pulled out a hip flask, and took a long draught from it.

As he lifted his arm to drink, his cloak was pulled a few inches from the ground, and Harry saw, below the table, several inches of carved wooden leg, ending in a clawed foot.

Dumbledore cleared his throat.

"As I was saying," he said, smiling at the sea of students before him, all of whom were still gazing transfixed at Mad-Eye Moody, "we are to have the honor of hosting a very exciting event over the coming months, an event that has not been held for over a century. It is my very great pleasure to inform you that the Triwizard Tournament will be taking place at Hogwarts this year."

"You're JOKING!" Seamus Finnigan said loudly.

The tension that had filled the Hall ever since Moody's arrival suddenly broke. Nearly everyone laughed, and Dumbledore chuckled appreciatively.

"I am not joking, Mr. Finnigan," he said, "though now that you mention it, I did hear an excellent one over the summer about a troll, a hag, and a leprechaun who all go into a bar."

Professor McGonagall cleared her throat loudly.

"Er... but maybe this is not the time... no..." Dumbledore said, "where was I? Ah yes, the Triwizard Tournament... well, some of you will not know what this tournament involves, so I hope those who do know will forgive me for giving a short explanation, and allow their attention to wander freely. The Triwizard Tournament was first established some seven hundred years ago as a friendly competition between the three largest European schools of wizardry: Hogwarts, Beauxbatons, and Durmstrang. A champion was selected to represent each school, and the three champions competed in three magical tasks. The schools took it in turns to host the tournament once every five years, and it was generally agreed to be a most excellent way of establishing ties between young witches and wizards of different nationalities, until, that is, the death toll mounted so high that the tournament was discontinued."

"Death toll?" Hermione whispered, looking alarmed. But her anxiety did not seem to be shared by the majority of students in the Hall. Many of them were whispering excitedly to one another, and Harry himself was far more interested in hearing about the tournament than in worrying about deaths that had happened hundreds of years ago.

"There have been several attempts over the centuries to reinstate the tournament," Dumbledore continued, "none of which has been very successful. However, our own departments of International Magical Cooperation and Magical Games and Sports have decided the time is ripe for another attempt. We have worked hard over the summer to ensure that this time, no champion will find himself or herself in mortal danger. The heads of Beauxbatons and Durmstrang will be arriving with their short-listed contenders in October, and the selection of the three champions will take place at Halloween. An impartial judge will decide which students are most worthy to compete for the Triwizard Cup, the glory of their school, and a thousand Galleons personal prize money."

"I'm going for it!" Seamus hissed down the table, his face lit with enthusiasm at the prospect of such glory and riches. He was not the only person who seemed to be visualizing himself as the Hogwarts champion. At every House table, Harry could see people either gazing raptly at Dumbledore, or else whispering fervently to their neighbors. But then Dumbledore spoke again, and the Hall quieted once more.

"Eager though I know all of you will be to bring the Triwizard Cup to Hogwarts," he said, "the heads of the participating schools, along with the Ministry of Magic, have agreed to impose an age restriction on contenders this year. Only students who are of age, that is to say, seventeen years or older, will be allowed to put forward their names for consideration. This," Dumbledore raised his voice slightly, for several people had made noises of outrage at these words, "is a measure we feel is necessary, given that the tournament tasks will still be difficult and dangerous, whatever precautions we take, and it is highly unlikely that students below sixth and seventh year will be able to cope with them. I will personally be ensuring that no underage student hoodwinks our impartial judge into making them Hogwarts champion." His light blue eyes twinkled as they flickered over the students' mutinous faces.

"I therefore beg you not to waste your time submitting yourself if you are under seventeen. The delegations from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang will be arriving in October and remaining with us for the greater part of this year. I know that you will all extend every courtesy to our foreign guests while they are with us, and will give your whole-hearted support to the Hogwarts champion when he or she is selected. And now, it is late, and I know how important it is to you all to be alert and rested as you enter your lessons tomorrow morning. Bedtime! Chop chop!"

"Well, isn't that interesting?" Neville said with a smile as they moved out of the Great Hall. Harry hummed in agreement as he stuffed his now dry pipe with dry tobacco, lighting it.

"Very interesting. Thinking about entering?"

"I'd like to, but I don't think I will," Neville said, still smiling. "I have 'The Prisoner of Azkaban' to write, after all."

"By the way," Harry said, glancing at Neville. "Why didn't you tell me that thirty percent of the profits were transferred to my vault?"

Neville smirked.

"Because you wouldn't have accepted it."

"True."

"I can't believe people are actually considering entering. I mean, people have died in the Triwizard Tournament," Hermione said in a worried voice as they walked through a door concealed behind a tapestry and started up another, narrower staircase.

"Yeah," Neville said airily, "but that was years ago, wasn't it? Anyway, where's the fun without a bit of risk?"

"You're starting to sound like me," Harry said with a laugh. "But although I do enjoy a bit of risk, it is only interesting if there's a mystery involved."

"I definitely haven't learned enough for it, anyway," Neville said, grunting as he struggled up the staircase with his bad leg. "I expect my gran'd want me to try, though. She's always going on about how I should be upholding the family honor. I'll just have to- oops!"

Neville's foot had sunk right through a step halfway up the staircase. There were many of these trick stairs at Hogwarts. It was second nature to most of the older students to jump this particular step, but Neville's mind was no doubt elsewhere at the moment. Harry seized him under the armpits and pulled him out, while a suit of armor at the top of the stairs creaked and clanked, laughing wheezily.

"Shut it, you," Neville said, banging down its visor with his walking stick as they passed. They made their way up to the entrance to Gryffindor Tower, where the Fat Lady hung.

"Password?" she asked as they approached.

"Balderdash," Hermione, the Head Girl, said.

The portrait swung forward to reveal a hole in the wall through which they all climbed. A crackling fire warmed the circular common room, which was full of squashy armchairs and tables. Hermione cast the merrily dancing flames a dark look, and Harry distinctly heard her mutter, "Slave labor," before bidding them good night and disappearing through the doorway to the girls' dormitory.

Harry and Neville climbed up the last, spiral staircase until they reached their own dormitory, which was situated at the top of the tower. Five four-poster beds with deep crimson hangings stood against the walls, each with its owner's trunk at the foot. Dean and Seamus were already getting into bed. Seamus had pinned an Ireland rosette from the Quidditch World Cup to his headboard, and Dean had tacked up a poster of Viktor Krum, a famous, Bulgarian Seeker, over his bedside table. His old poster of the West Ham football team was pinned right next to it.

Harry and Neville got into their pajamas and into bed. Someone, a house-elf, no doubt, had placed warming pans between the sheets. It was extremely comfortable, lying there in bed and listening to the storm raging outside.

The storm had blown itself out by the following morning, though the ceiling in the Great Hall was still gloomy. Heavy clouds of pewter gray swirled overhead as Harry, Neville, and Hermione examined their new course schedules at breakfast. Harry had decided against wearing his frock coat, but other than that he wore the same clothes he wore during the feast.

"Today's not bad for me," Neville said with a smile. "All I have is Herbology after lunch."

"I have Ancient Runes first-period, Herbology after lunch, and Arithmancy after that," Harry said, and Hermione nodded in agreement, since they had almost the same schedules, save for the fact that Harry also had NEWT Care of Magical Creatures.

"Eating again, I see," Harry noted as Hermione added liberal amounts of jam to her toast.

"I've decided there are better ways of making a stand about elf rights."

"And you were hungry," Neville said with a grin, which was ignored by Hermione.

There was a sudden rustling noise above them, and a hundred owls came soaring through the open windows carrying the morning mail. A brown owl delivered the Daily Prophet to Harry, while a large tawny owl soared down to Neville and deposited a parcel into his lap. Opening it, he found his winter coat, stating, "I knew I forgot to pack something!"


	14. Chapter 14

Fleur Delacour sat on her bed in her dorm at Beauxbatons Academy for Magic, staring at a newspaper clipping. It showed her father, Alphonse Delacour, shaking hands with a young man who barely looked seventeen. It was Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, and student of the school that they would be visiting soon. Her father spoke only highly of him.

"He's a bit queer in his ways," her father had told her, "but he is by far the most brilliant man I have ever met. Give him five years, and he could run for Minister, if he wanted."

Well, Fleur would just have to see about that, wouldn't she?

TRIWIZARD TOURNAMENT

THE DELEGATIONS FROM BEAUXBATONS AND DURMSTRANG WILL BE ARRIVING AT 6 O'CLOCK ON FRIDAY THE 30TH OF OCTOBER. LESSONS WILL END HALF AN HOUR EARLY

STUDENTS WILL RETURN THEIR BAGS AND BOOKS TO THEIR DORMITORIES AND ASSEMBLE IN FRONT OF THE CASTLE TO GREET OUR GUESTS BEFORE THE WELCOMING FEAST.

"Only a week away," Harry spoke as he studied the sign. "So, we are to be scrutinized and silently judged by two other schools, eh?"

"Not necessarily silently," Neville said.

The appearance of the sign in the entrance hall had a marked effect upon the inhabitants of the castle. During the following week, there seemed to be only one topic of conversation, no matter where Harry went: the Triwizard Tournament.

Rumors were flying from student to student like highly contagious germs: who was going to try for Hogwarts champion, what the tournament would involve, how the students from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang differed from themselves. Harry noticed too that the castle seemed to be undergoing an extra-thorough cleaning. Several grimy portraits had been scrubbed, much to the displeasure of their subjects, who sat huddled in their frames muttering darkly and wincing as they felt their raw pink faces. The suits of armor were suddenly gleaming and moving without squeaking, and Argus Filch, the caretaker, was behaving so ferociously to any students who forgot to wipe their shoes that he terrified a pair of first-year girls into hysterics. Other members of the staff seemed oddly tense too.

"Longbottom, kindly do not reveal that you can't even perform a simple Switching Spell in front of anyone from Durmstrang!" Professor McGonagall barked at the end of one particularly difficult lesson, during which Neville had accidentally transplanted his own ears onto a cactus.

"No, Neville, that's not how you do it," Harry said with a sigh. "You're supposed to make a flowing slash with the wand, like so," Harry demonstrated the wand movement while performing the spell. Neville's cactus was switched with Harry's own. "You're not supposed to jerk the wand."

"Excellent work, Potter," McGonagall said. "Ten points to Gryffindor."

When they went down to breakfast on the morning of the thirtieth of October, they found that the Great Hall had been decorated overnight. Enormous silk banners hung from the walls, each of them representing a Hogwarts House: red with a gold lion for Gryffiindor, blue with a bronze eagle for Ravenclaw, yellow with a black badger for Hufflepuff, and green with a silver serpent for Slytherin. Behind the teachers' table, the largest banner of all bore the Hogwarts coat of arms: lion, eagle, badger, and snake united around a large letter H.

Harry, Neville, and Hermione sat down at the Gryffindor table.

"Wonder what the tasks are going to be?" Neville said thoughtfully. "You know, I bet we could do them if we wanted, Harry. We've done dangerous stuff before..."

"Not in front of a panel of judges, we haven't," Harry said. "McGonagall said the champions get awarded points according to how well they've done the tasks."

"Who are the judges?" Neville asked.

"Well, the Heads of the participating schools are always on the panel," said Hermione, and Neville looked around at her, rather surprised, "because all three of them were injured during the Tournament of 1792, when a cockatrice the champions were supposed to be catching went on the rampage."

She noticed Neville looking at her and said, with her usual air of impatience that nobody else had read all the books she had, "It's all in Hogwarts, A History. Though, of course, that book's not entirely reliable. A Revised History of Hogwarts would be a more accurate title. Or A Highly Biased and Selective History of Hogwarts, Which Glosses Over the Nastier Aspects of the School."

"What are you on about?" Neville asked, though Harry thought he knew what was coming.

"House-elves!" Hermione said, her eyes flashing. "Not once, in over a thousand pages, does Hogwarts, A History mention that we are all colluding in the oppression of a hundred slaves!"

Harry shook his head and applied himself to his scrambled eggs. His and Neville's lack of enthusiasm had done nothing whatsoever to curb Hermione's determination to pursue justice for house-elves.

True, both of them had paid two Sickles for a S.P.E.W. badge, but they had only done it to keep her quiet.

Their Sickles had been wasted, however. If anything, they seemed to have made Hermione more vociferous. She had been badgering Harry and Neville ever since, first to wear the badges, then to persuade others to do the same, and she had also taken to rattling around the Gryffindor common room every evening, cornering people and shaking the collecting tin under their noses.

"You do realize that your sheets are changed, your fires lit, your classrooms cleaned, and your food cooked by a group of magical creatures who are unpaid and enslaved?" she kept saying fiercely.

A few seemed mildly interested in what she had to say, but were reluctant to take a more active role in campaigning. Many regarded the whole thing as a joke. Neville now rolled his eyes at the ceiling, which was flooding them all in autumn sunlight, and Harry sighed.

"Hermione, listen," Harry said, deciding to straighten this out once and for all. "During the summer, I, in total, investigated five murders. In all of those, the victim had a house-elf. And not once did I come to the conclusion that the house-elf did it. Do you know why? Because they like the way they live."

"But what about Dobby?" Hermione argued. "He was happy when you got him freed!"

"Exactly," Harry said. "He was working for an abusive family, and was forced to punish himself even when he'd done nothing wrong. He wanted to be freed, because he didn't want to be with his family. So, how can you say that they have been brainwashed?"

Hermione opened her mouth, then closed it with a snap. Neville looked up from his meal, amused, as Hermione opened her mouth to argue again, but closed it once more.

"Drop the spew thing," Harry said. "If house-elves don't like the way they live, then they will no doubt show it, but none of the house-elves here at Hogwarts, or anywhere else that I've seen for that matter, wants to be freed. Kreacher, for instance, Sirius' house-elf, hated Sirius. The feeling was quite mutual, I can assure you, but even if he hated Sirius more than anything, he still killed himself when Sirius set him free."

Hermione gasped and covered her mouth with her hand. "That-"

"You know why he did it?" Harry asked, raising an eyebrow. "Out of love. House-elves love the families they work for, and tearing them away from their home is like tearing a mother away from her child. I won't sit here any longer, and listen to how you're plotting to ruin the lives of hundreds of house-elves!"

Neville and Hermione gaped at Harry. They'd never heard him talk to a friend in such a way before. Harry huffed, just as a post-owl arrived, and delivered to him a copy of the Daily Prophet.

There was a pleasant feeling of anticipation in the air that day. Nobody save Harry was very attentive in lessons, being much more interested in the arrival that evening of the people from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang. Even Potions was more bearable than usual, as it was half an hour shorter. When the bell rang early, Harry, Neville, and Hermione hurried up to Gryffindor Tower, deposited their bags and books as they had been instructed, pulled on their cloaks (Winter coats in Harry and Neville's case), and rushed back downstairs into the entrance hall.

The Heads of Houses were ordering their students into lines.

"Weasley, straighten your hat," Professor McGonagall snapped at Ron Weasley. "Miss Patil, take that ridiculous thing out of your hair."

Parvati scowled and removed a large ornamental butterfly from the end of her plait.

"And for goodness sake, will you please put on some robes, Potter, Longbottom?" Professor McGonagall pleaded.

"Don't count on it," Harry said calmly, chewing on his pipe, and Neville nodded in agreement. He, at least, had dressed up nicely. Harry just wore a dirty shirt and waistcoat under his winter coat.

"Follow me, please," Professor McGonagall said. "First years in front... no pushing..."

They filed down the steps and lined up in front of the castle. It was a cold, clear evening. Dusk was falling and a pale, transparent-looking moon was already shining over the Forbidden Forest. Harry, standing between Neville and Hermione in the seventh row from the front, saw Dennis Creevey positively shivering with anticipation among the other first years.

"Nearly six," said Neville, checking his pocket watch and then staring down the drive that led to the front gates. "How d'you reckon they're coming? The train?"

"I doubt it," Hermione said. She was still a little shaken from Harry telling her off.

"How, then? Broomsticks?" Harry suggested, looking up at the starry sky, leaning on a walking stick that was nearly identical to the one Neville had. He'd gotten one from Sirius as well, due to his love for Sherlock Holmes, and his gentleman-like behavior.

"I don't think so... not from that far away..."

"A Portkey?" Neville suggested. "Or they could Apparate. Maybe you're allowed to do it under seventeen wherever they come from?"

"You can't Apparate inside the Hogwarts grounds, how often do I have to tell you?" Hermione asked impatiently.

They scanned the darkening grounds excitedly, but nothing was moving. Everything was still, silent, and quite as usual. Harry was starting to feel cold. He wished they'd hurry up... Maybe the foreign students were preparing a dramatic entrance...

And then Dumbledore called out from the back row where he stood with the other teachers. "Aha! Unless I am very much mistaken, the delegation from Beauxbatons approaches!"

"Where?" many students asked eagerly, all looking in different directions.

"There!" a sixth year yelled, pointing over the forest.

Something large, much larger than a broomstick, or, indeed, a hundred broomsticks, was hurtling across the deep blue sky toward the castle, growing larger all the time.

"It's a dragon!" one of the first years shrieked, losing her head completely.

"Don't be stupid... it's a flying house!" Dennis Creevey said.

Dennis's guess was closer...

As the gigantic black shape skimmed over the treetops of the Forbidden Forest and the lights shining from the castle windows hit it, they saw a gigantic, powderblue, horse-drawn carriage, the size of a large house, soaring toward them, pulled through the air by a dozen winged horses, all palominos, and each the size of an elephant.

The front three rows of students drew backward as the carriage hurtled ever lower, coming in to land at a tremendous speed. Then, with an almighty crash that made many of the students jump, the horses' hooves, larger than dinner plates, hit the ground. A second later, the carriage landed too, bouncing upon its vast wheels, while the golden horses tossed their enormous heads and rolled large, fiery red eyes.

Harry just had time to see that the door of the carriage bore a coat of arms (two crossed, golden wands, each emitting three stars) before it opened. A boy in pale blue robes jumped down from the carriage, bent forward, fumbled for a moment with something on the carriage floor, and unfolded a set of golden steps. He sprang back respectfully. Then Harry saw a shining, high-heeled black shoe emerging from the inside of the carriage, a shoe the size of a child's sled, followed, almost immediately, by the largest woman he had ever seen in his life. The size of the carriage, and of the horses, was immediately explained. A few people gasped.

Harry had only ever seen one person as large as this woman in his life, and that was Hagrid. He doubted whether there was an inch difference in their heights. Yet somehow, maybe simply because he was used to Hagrid, this woman (now at the foot of the steps, and looking around at the waiting, wide-eyed crowd) seemed even more unnaturally large. As she stepped into the light flooding from the entrance hall, she was revealed to have a handsome, olive-skinned face, large, black, liquid-looking eyes, and a rather beaky nose. Her hair was drawn back in a shining knob at the base of her neck. She was dressed from head to foot in black satin, and many magnificent opals gleamed at her throat and on her thick fingers.

Dumbledore started to clap. The students, following his lead, broke into applause too, many of them standing on tiptoe, the better to look at this woman.

Her face relaxed into a gracious smile and she walked forward toward Dumbledore, extending a glittering hand. Dumbledore, though tall himself, had barely to bend to kiss it.

"My dear Madame Maxime," he said. "Welcome to Hogwarts."

"Dumbly-dort," Madame Maxime said in a deep voice. "I 'ope I find you well?"

"In excellent form, I thank you," Dumbledore said.

"My pupils," Madame Maxime said, waving one of her enormous hands carelessly behind her.

Harry, whose attention had been focused completely upon Madame Maxime, now noticed that about a dozen boys and girls, all, by the look of them, in their late teens, had emerged from the carriage and were now standing behind Madame Maxime. They were shivering, which was unsurprising, given that their robes seemed to be made of fine silk, and none of them were wearing cloaks. A few had wrapped scarves and shawls around their heads.

From what Harry could see of them (they were standing in Madame Maxime's enormous shadow), they were staring up at Hogwarts with apprehensive looks on their faces.

"'As Karkaroff arrived yet?" Madame Maxime asked.

"He should be here any moment," Dumbledore said. "Would you like to wait here and greet him or would you prefer to step inside and warm up a trifle?"

"Warm up, I think," Madame Maxime said. "But ze 'orses..."

"Our Care of Magical Creatures teacher will be delighted to take care of them," Dumbledore said, "the moment he has returned from dealing with a slight situation that has arisen with some of his other, er, charges."

Skrewts, Harry, who was the only one in the trio taking the Care of Magical Creatures class, thought, knowing all too well what the creatures could do.

"My steeds require, er, forceful 'andling," Madame Maxime said, looking as though she doubted whether any Care of Magical Creatures teacher at Hogwarts could be up to the job. "Zey are very strong..."

"I assure you that Hagrid will be well up to the job," Dumbledore said, smiling.

"Very well," Madame Maxime said, bowing slightly. "Will you please inform zis 'Agrid zat ze 'orses drink only single-malt whiskey?"

"It will be attended to," Dumbledore said, also bowing.

"Come," Madame Maxime said imperiously to her students, and the Hogwarts crowd parted to allow her and her students to pass up the stone steps.

"How big d'you reckon Durmstrang's horses are going to be?" Seamus Finnigan asked, leaning around Lavender and Parvati to address Harry and Neville.

"I highly doubt they'll use horses," Harry said as he lit his pipe. "There are no Pegasuses in the far north."

They stood, most people shivering slightly now, waiting for the Durmstrang party to arrive. Most people were gazing hopefully up at the sky. For a few minutes, the silence was broken only by Madame Maxime's huge horses snorting and stamping. But then...

"Can you hear something?" Neville said suddenly. Harry listened. A loud and oddly eerie noise was drifting toward them from out of the darkness: a muffled rumbling and sucking sound, as though an immense vacuum cleaner were moving along a riverbed.

"The lake!" Dean Thomas yelled, pointing down at it. "Look at the lake!"

From their position at the top of the lawns overlooking the grounds, they had a clear view of the smooth black surface of the water, except that the surface was suddenly not smooth at all. Some disturbance was taking place deep in the center; great bubbles were forming on the surface, waves were now washing over the muddy banks, and then, out in the very middle of the lake, a whirlpool appeared, as if a giant plug had just been pulled out of the lake's floor... What seemed to be a long, black pole began to rise slowly out of the heart of the whirlpool... and then Harry saw the rigging...

"It's a mast," he said to Neville and Hermione.

Slowly, magnificently, the ship rose out of the water, gleaming in the moonlight. It had a strangely skeletal look about it, as though it were a resurrected wreck, and the dim, misty lights shimmering at its portholes looked like ghostly eyes.

Finally, with a great sloshing noise, the ship emerged entirely, bobbing on the turbulent water, and began to glide toward the bank. A few moments later, they heard the splash of an anchor being thrown down in the shallows, and the thud of a plank being lowered onto the bank.

People were disembarking. They could see their silhouettes passing the lights in the ship's portholes. All of them, Harry noticed, seemed to be built along the lines of Crabbe and Goyle... but then, as they drew nearer, walking up the lawns into the light streaming from the entrance hall, he saw that their bulk was really due to the fact that they were wearing cloaks of some kind of shaggy, matted fur. But the man who was leading them up to the castle was wearing furs of a different sort: sleek and silver, like his hair.

"Dumbledore!" he called heartily as he walked up the slope. "How are you, my dear fellow, how are you?"

"Blooming, thank you, Professor Karkaroff," Dumbledore replied. Karkaroff had a fruity, unctuous voice, and when he stepped into the light pouring from the front doors of the castle they saw that he was tall and thin like Dumbledore, but his white hair was short, and his goatee (finishing in a small curl) did not entirely hide his rather weak chin. When he reached Dumbledore, he shook hands with both of his own.

"Dear old Hogwarts," he said, looking up at the castle and smiling. His teeth were rather yellow, and Harry noticed that his smile did not extend to his eyes, which remained cold and shrewd. "How good it is to be here, how good... Viktor, come along, into the warmth... you don't mind, Dumbledore? Viktor has a slight head cold..."

Karkaroff beckoned forward one of his students. As the boy passed, Harry caught a glimpse of a prominent curved nose and thick black eyebrows.

He didn't need the punch on the arm Neville gave him, or the hiss in his ear, to recognize that profile.

"Harry, that's Viktor Krum!"

"No, really?" Harry asked in mock surprise. "I never would have guessed."

As they recrossed the entrance hall with the rest of the Hogwarts students heading for the Great Hall, Harry saw Lee Jordan jumping up and down on the soles of his feet to get a better look at the back of Krum's head. Several sixth-year girls were frantically searching their pockets as they walked.

"Oh, I don't believe it, I haven't got a single quill on me!"

"D'you think he'd sign my hat in lipstick?"

"Really," Hermione said loftily as they passed the girls, now squabbling over the lipstick.

They walked over to the Gryffindor table and sat down. Harry could see Ron Weasley taking a seat on the side facing the doorway, because Krum and his fellow Durmstrang students were still gathered around it, apparently unsure about where they should sit. The students from Beauxbatons had chosen seats at the Ravenclaw table. They were looking around the Great Hall with glum expressions on their faces. Three of them were still clutching scarves and shawls around their heads.

"It's not that cold," Hermione said defensively. "Why didn't they bring cloaks?"

Viktor Krum and his fellow Durmstrang students settled themselves at the Slytherin table. Harry could see Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle looking very smug about this. As he watched, Malfoy bent forward to speak to Krum.

"Where do you reckon they'll sleep?" Neville asked. "That ship didn't really look too nice to sleep in."

"They look a lot happier than the Beauxbatons lot," Harry said. The Durmstrang students were pulling off their heavy furs and looking up at the starry black ceiling with expressions of interest. A couple of them were picking up the golden plates and goblets and examining them, apparently impressed.

Up at the staff table, Filch was adding chairs. He was wearing his moldy old tailcoat in honor of the occasion.

When all the students had entered the Hall and settled down at their House tables, the staff entered, filing up to the top table and taking their seats. Last in line were Professor Dumbledore, Professor Karkaroff, and Madame Maxime. When their headmistress appeared, the pupils from Beauxbatons leapt to their feet. A few of the Hogwarts students laughed. The Beauxbatons party appeared quite unembarrassed, however, and did not resume their seats until Madame Maxime had sat down on Dumbledore's left-hand side. Dumbledore remained standing, and a silence fell over the Great Hall.

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, ghosts and, most particularly, guests," Dumbledore said, beaming around at the foreign students. "I have great pleasure in welcoming you all to Hogwarts. I hope and trust that your stay here will be both comfortable and enjoyable."

One of the Beauxbatons girls still clutching a muffler around her head gave what was unmistakably a derisive laugh.

"No one's making you stay!" Hermione whispered, bristling at her.

"The tournament will be officially opened at the end of the feast," Dumbledore said. "I now invite you all to eat, drink, and make yourselves at home!"

He sat down, and Harry saw Karkaroff lean forward at once and engage him in conversation.

The plates in front of them filled with food as usual. The house-elves in the kitchen seemed to have pulled out all the stops. There was a greater variety of dishes in front of them than Harry had ever seen, including several that were definitely foreign.

"What's that?" Neville asked, pointing at a large dish of some sort of shellfish stew that stood beside a large steak-and-kidney pudding.

"Bouillabaisse," Hermione said.

"Bless you," Neville said.

"It's French," Hermione said, "I had it on holiday the summer before last. It's very nice."

"Indeed?" Harry asked as he helped himself to some. He sniffed it and found that it at least smelled good.

The Great Hall seemed somehow much more crowded than usual, even though there were barely twenty additional students there. Perhaps it was because their differently colored uniforms stood out so clearly against the black of the Hogwarts' robes. Now that they had removed their furs, the Durmstrang students were revealed to be wearing robes of a deep blood red.

Hagrid sidled into the Hall through a door behind the staff table twenty minutes after the start of the feast. He slid into his seat at the end and waved at Harry, Neville, and Hermione with a very heavily bandaged hand.

"Skrewts doing all right, Hagrid?" Harry called.

"Thrivin'," Hagrid called back happily.

"Yeah, I'll just bet they are," Neville said quietly. "Looks like they've finally found a food they like, doesn't it? Hagrid's fingers."

At that moment, a voice said, "Excuse me, are you wanting ze bouillabaisse?" It was the girl from Beauxbatons who had laughed during Dumbledore's speech. She had finally removed her muffler. A long sheet of silvery-blonde hair fell almost to her waist. She had large, deep blue eyes, and very white, even teeth.

"Yeah, have it," Harry said, pushing the dish toward the girl.

"You 'ave finished wiz it?"

"Yes, go ahead and take it," Harry spoke in fluent French, getting stunned looks from Neville and Hermione. "We're finished with it."

The girl, however, raised an eyebrow in interest.

"Oh, so you speak French?"

"Of course," Harry said with a nod.

The girl picked up the dish and carried it carefully off to the Ravenclaw table.

"You never told us you spoke French," Hermione said with an accusing tone in her voice.

"I never told you I didn't, either," Harry said, shrugging. "You probably just assumed that I didn't."

Hermione huffed.

Meanwhile, Fleur felt more intrigued as she moved back to the Ravenclaw table with the bouillabaisse. The boy, though dirty he may have appeared, was quite polite. And he spoke French. Not to mention, he didn't turn into a drooling slob when he saw her, so he was either immune to her allure, or a homosexual. She wasn't quite sure which...

"The moment has come," Dumbledore said, smiling around at the sea of upturned faces. "The Triwizard Tournament is about to start. I would like to say a few words of explanation before we bring in the casket-"

"The what?" Neville muttered.

Harry shrugged.

"-just to clarify the procedure that we will be following this year. But first, let me introduce, for those who do not know them, Mr. Bartemius Crouch, Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation," there was a smattering of polite applause, "and Mr. Ludo Bagman, Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports."

There was a much louder round of applause for Bagman than for Crouch, perhaps because of his fame as a Beater, or simply because he looked so much more likable. He acknowledged it with a jovial wave of his hand. Bartemius Crouch did not smile or wave when his name was announced. He looked strange in wizard's robes, looking more like he'd be better off dressed as a muggle. His toothbrush mustache and severe parting looked very odd next to Dumbledore's long white hair and beard.

"Mr. Bagman and Mr. Crouch have worked tirelessly over the last few months on the arrangements for the Triwizard Tournament," Dumbledore continued, "and they will be joining myself, Professor Karkaroff, and Madame Maxime on the panel that will judge the champions' efforts."

At the mention of the word 'champions,' the attentiveness of the listening students seemed to sharpen. Perhaps Dumbledore had noticed their sudden stillness, for he smiled as he said, "The casket, then, if you please, Mr. Filch."

Filch, who had been lurking unnoticed in a far corner of the Hall, now approached Dumbledore carrying a great wooden chest encrusted with jewels. It looked extremely old. A murmur of excited interest rose from the watching students. Dennis Creevey actually stood on his chair to see it properly, but, being so tiny, his head hardly rose above anyone else's.

"The instructions for the tasks the champions will face this year have already been examined by Mr. Crouch and Mr. Bagman," Dumbledore said as Filch placed the chest carefully on the table before him, "and they have made the necessary arrangements for each challenge. There will be three tasks, spaced throughout the school year, and they will test the champions in many different ways... their magical prowess, their daring, their powers of deduction, and, of course, their ability to cope with danger."

At this last word, the Hall was filled with a silence so absolute that nobody seemed to be breathing.

"As you know, three champions compete in the tournament," Dumbledore went on calmly, "one from each of the participating schools. They will be marked on how well they perform each of the Tournament tasks and the champion with the highest total after task three will win the Triwizard Cup. The champions will be chosen by an impartial selector: the Goblet of Fire."

Dumbledore now took out his wand and tapped three times upon the top of the casket. The lid creaked slowly open. Dumbledore reached inside it and pulled out a large, roughly hewn wooden cup. It would have been entirely unremarkable had it not been full to the brim with dancing blue-white flames. Dumbledore closed the casket and placed the goblet carefully on top of it, where it would be clearly visible to everyone in the Hall.

"Anybody wishing to submit themselves as champion must write their name and school clearly upon a slip of parchment and drop it into the goblet," Dumbledore said. "Aspiring champions have twenty-four hours in which to put their names forward. Tomorrow night, Halloween, the goblet will return the names of the three it has judged most worthy to represent their schools. The goblet will be placed in the entrance hall tonight, where it will be freely accessible to all those wishing to compete."

Harry looked around the Great Hall, and wondered how many of the students there would try to put their name in the Goblet, even if they weren't seventeen.

"To ensure that no underage student yields to temptation," Dumbledore said, "I will be drawing an Age Line around the Goblet of Fire once it has been placed in the entrance hall. Nobody under the age of seventeen will be able to cross this line. Finally, I wish to impress upon any of you wishing to compete that this tournament is not to be entered into lightly. Once a champion has been selected by the Goblet of Fire, he or she is obliged to see the tournament through to the end. The placing of your name in the goblet constitutes a binding, magical contract. There can be no change of heart once you have become a champion. Please be very sure, therefore, that you are wholeheartedly prepared to play before you drop your name into the goblet. Now, I think it is time for bed. Good night to you all."

"But I don't think anyone under seventeen will stand a chance," Hermione said as they all rose from their seats, hearing how the younger students were talking about how to get past the Age Line, "they just haven't learned enough..."

"But they don't know that," Harry reasoned with a shrug.

They were level with the Slytherin table now, and Karkaroff had just bustled up to his students.

"Back to the ship, then," he was saying. "Viktor, how are you feeling? Did you eat enough? Should I send for some mulled wine from the kitchens?"

Harry saw Krum shake his head as he pulled his furs back on. "Professor, I vood like some vine," one of the other Durmstrang boys said hopefully.

"I wasn't offering it to you, Poliakoff," Karkaroff snapped, his warmly paternal air vanishing in an instant. "I notice you have dribbled food all down the front of your robes again, disgusting boy..."

Karkaroff turned and led his students toward the doors, reaching them at exactly the same moment as Harry, Neville, and Hermione. Harry stopped to let him walk through first.

"Thank you," Karkaroff said carelessly, glancing at him. And then Karkaroff froze. He turned his head back to Harry and stared at him as though he couldn't believe his eyes. Behind their headmaster, the students from Durmstrang came to a halt too. Karkaroff's eyes moved slowly up Harry's face and fixed upon his scar.

The Durmstrang students were staring curiously at Harry too. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw comprehension dawn on a few of their faces. The boy with food all down his front nudged the girl next to him and pointed openly at Harry's forehead.

"Yeah, that's Harry Potter," a growling voice from behind them said.

Professor Karkaroff spun around. Mad-Eye Moody was standing there, leaning heavily on his staff, his magical eye glaring unblinkingly at the Durmstrang headmaster.

The color drained from Karkaroff's face as Harry watched. A terrible look of mingled fury and fear came over him.

"You!" he said, staring at Moody as though unsure he was really seeing him.

"Me," Moody said grimly. "And unless you've got anything to say to Potter, Karkaroff, you might want to move. You're blocking the doorway."

It was true. Half the students in the Hall were now waiting behind them, looking over one another's shoulders to see what was causing the holdup.

Without another word, Professor Karkaroff swept his students away with him. Moody watched him until he was out of sight, his magical eye fixed upon his back, a look of intense dislike upon his mutilated face.

As the next day was Saturday, most students would normally have breakfasted late. Harry, Neville, and Hermione, however, were not alone in rising much earlier than they usually did on weekends. When they went down into the entrance hall, they saw about twenty people milling around it, some of them eating toast, all examining the Goblet of Fire. It had been placed in the center of the hall on the stool that normally bore the Sorting Hat. A thin golden line had been traced on the floor, forming a circle ten feet around it in every direction.

"Anyone put their name in yet?" Neville asked a third-year girl eagerly.

"All the Durmstrang lot," she replied. "But I haven't seen anyone from Hogwarts yet."

"Bet some of them put it in last night after we'd all gone to bed," Harry said. "I would've if it had been me... wouldn't have wanted everyone watching. What if the goblet just gobbed you right back out again?"

Having spent some time looking at who might come put their names into the goblet, Harry, Neville, and Hermione, chatting peacefully, went in to breakfast.

The decorations in the Great Hall had changed this morning. As it was Halloween, a cloud of live bats was fluttering around the enchanted ceiling, while hundreds of carved pumpkins leered from every corner. Harry led the way over to Dean and Seamus, who were discussing those Hogwarts students of seventeen or over who might be entering.

"There's a rumor going around that Malfoy got up early and put his name in," Dean told Harry.

Harry shook his head in disgust.

"We can't have a Slytherin champion."

"And all the Hufflepuffs are talking about Finch-Fletchley," Seamus said contemptuously.

"But I wouldn't have thought he'd have wanted to risk his good looks."

"What're we going to do today, then?" Neville asked Harry and Hermione when they had finished breakfast and were leaving the Great Hall.

"We haven't been down to visit Hagrid yet," Harry said, shrugging. "How about we take a little stroll down to his hut?"


	15. Chapter 15

"Well, the goblet is almost ready to make its decision," Dumbledore said. "I estimate that it requires one more minute. Now, when the champions' names are called, I would ask them please to come up to the top of the Hall, walk along the staff table, and go through into the next chamber," he indicated the door behind the staff table, "where they will be receiving their first instructions."

He took out his wand and gave a great sweeping wave with it. At once, all the candles except those inside the carved pumpkins were extinguished, plunging the Great Hall into a state of semidarkness.

The Goblet of Fire now shone more brightly than anything in the whole Hall, the sparkling bright, bluey-whiteness of the flames almost painful on the eyes. Everyone watched, waiting... A few people kept checking their watches...

The flames inside the goblet turned suddenly red again. Sparks began to fly from it. Next moment, a tongue of flame shot into the air, a charred piece of parchment fluttered out of it, and the whole room gasped.

Dumbledore caught the piece of parchment and held it at arm's length, so that he could read it by the light of the flames, which had turned back to blue-white.

"The champion for Durmstrang," he read, in a strong, clear voice, "will be Viktor Krum."

A storm of applause and cheering swept the Hall. Viktor Krum rose from the Slytherin table and slouched up toward Dumbledore. He turned right, walked along the staff table, and disappeared through the door into the next chamber.

"Bravo, Viktor!" Karkaroff boomed, so loudly that everyone could hear him, even over all the applause. "Knew you had it in you!"

The clapping and chatting died down. Now everyone's attention was focused again on the goblet, which, seconds later, turned red once more. A second piece of parchment shot out of it, propelled by the flames.

"The champion for Beauxbatons," Dumbledore said, "is Fleur Delacour!"

The girl who so resembled a veela got gracefully to her feet, shook back her sheet of silvery blonde hair, and swept up between the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff tables.

Two of the girls from Beauxbatons, who had not been selected, had dissolved into tears and were sobbing with their heads on their arms.

When Fleur Delacour too had vanished into the side chamber, silence fell again, but this time it was a silence so stiff with excitement you could almost taste it. The Hogwarts champion next...

And the Goblet of Fire turned red once more, and sparks showered out of it. The tongue of flame shot high into the air, and from its tip Dumbledore pulled the third piece of parchment.

"The Hogwarts champion," he called, "is Harry Potter!"

Cheers broke out in the Great Hall, but none from the Slytherin table, though the Gryffindors clapped and cheered loud enough for four tables. Slowly, the cheers and clapping stopped, however, when no Harry made his way over.

"Harry! Up here, if you please!"

There was a quiet scraping as a chair was pushed back, and Neville could be seen standing up. He limped his way over to the head table, looking quite embarrassed.

"Mr. Longbottom?" Dumbledore questioned as Neville reached him. Neville leaned toward him.

"Um... He's not here, sir," Neville said quietly.

"Begging your pardon?"

"Harry isn't here, sir. He decided that he didn't feel like going to the feast tonight. He's probably up in the Gryffindor tower..."

"Mr. Longbottom, if you would, please go get Harry for me," Dumbledore said.

Neville sighed.

"Yes, sir."

Harry was sitting in his bed, playing his violin wearing nothing by his pajama pants. You could see in his eyes, though, that the violin was the last thing on his mind. He was deep in thought, thinking about his arch-nemesis, Lord Voldemort.

Judging by the dream Harry had in the middle of summer, Voldemort was planning something. He was planning on killing Harry. But how? That was the question Harry asked himself over and over again.

How was Voldemort planning on killing him? He had Pettigrew, who had made a miraculous escape from the Aurors who were taking him to Azkaban, and he had another servant, whose name he never heard.

"'One more murder... my faithful servant at Hogwarts... Harry Potter is as good as mine,'" Harry repeated what he'd heard in the dream to himself. Now that he thought about it, there was no talk about killing Harry. They were going to use him for something, but what?

He didn't have time to contemplate, as the dormitory door opened, and Neville came inside, gasping for breath.

"Harry..." he hissed as he clutched a stitch in his side. "You... need to... come with me..."

"Breathe, Neville," Harry said, giving Neville an amused smile. "What's the problem."

"No time..." Neville said. "Dumbledore... he wants to see you right now in... the Great Hall! Get dressed!"

Harry didn't have time to do more than put on his white button-up shirt, his pants, socks and shoes, before Neville groaned and grabbed him and pulled him with him.

"Come on!" he said. Harry grunted as he grabbed his fedora and walking stick, before allowing himself to be pulled along.

Within minutes, Harry and Neville got to the Great Hall.

"What's all this?" Harry asked as he stepped into the Great Hall. He was shocked to see Dumbledore look at him with a smile.

"Harry Potter, up here, if you please," Dumbledore repeated his words from earlier. Harry, confused, put on his fedora and walked up to Dumbledore, thoroughly puzzled.

Then, he saw the piece of parchment in Dumbledore's hand, with Harry's name on it.

"Oh, no..." he whispered, screwing his eyes shut.

Dumbledore raised his hand and pointed at the door in the back leading into the anteroom. Harry just nodded with a sigh. Might as well go along with it...

Harry moved off along the teachers' table. Hagrid was seated right at the end, waving cheerily at him. Harry half-heartedly waved back. He went through the door out of the Great Hall and found himself in a smaller room, lined with paintings of witches and wizards. A handsome fire was roaring in the fireplace opposite him.

The faces in the portraits turned to look at him as he entered. He saw a wizened witch flit out of the frame of her picture and into the next one, which contained a wizard with a walrus mustache. The wizened witch started whispering in his ear.

Viktor Krum and Fleur Delacour were grouped around the fire. They looked strangely impressive, silhouetted against the flames. Krum, hunched-up and brooding, was leaning against the mantelpiece, slightly apart from Fleur. Fleur, standing near the center of the room, looked around when Harry walked in and threw back her sheet of long, silvery hair.

"Bonsoir," she greeted, and Harry nodded in greeting as he moved over to an armchair in the corner, sitting down and taking out his pipe, chewing on it thoughtfully.

This was Voldemort's doing, without a doubt, but for what reason? Surely, he didn't want Harry to get killed in the tournament? No, his ego wouldn't allow that, that was for sure. He no doubt wanted the pleasure of killing Harry himself, so maybe he wanted Harry kidnapped during the confusion of one of the tasks? That was a probable theory.

There was a sound of scurrying feet, and Ludo Bagman entered the room, a brilliant smile on his face.

"Well then! We have our three champions! Now, we'd like you to wait just a few seconds for your headmasters and headmistress to arrive, and then we'll get started!"

Within moments, Dumbledore, Karkaroff, and Madame Maxime arrived, each Head moving over to their own student, Dumbledore giving Harry an inquisitive look. As they made eye contact, Harry, using Legilimency, showed Dumbledore all of last night, how he didn't put his name into the goblet. Dumbledore's silver eyebrows rose in surprise, but he quickly schooled his features, and looked to Bagman.

"Well, shall we crack on, then?" Bagman said, rubbing his hands together and smiling around the room. "Got to give our champions their instructions, haven't we? Barty, want to do the honors?"

Mr. Crouch was standing outside the circle of the firelight, his face half hidden in shadow. He looked slightly eerie, the half darkness making him look much older, giving him an almost skull-like appearance. When he spoke, however, it was in a very curt voice.

"Yes," he said, "instructions. Yes... the first task..."

He moved into the firelight. Close up, Harry thought he looked ill. There were dark shadows beneath his eyes and a thin, papery look about his wrinkled skin that had not been there in the picture he saw of Crouch in the Prophet, taken at the Quidditch World Cup. Imperius Curse? Maybe just stress over the tournament, surely... Yes, definitely just stress. Harry had a habit of overthinking things. Then again...

"The first task is designed to test your daring," Mr. Crouch told Harry, Fleur, and Viktor, "so we are not going to be telling you what it is. Courage in the face of the unknown is an important quality in a wizard... very important... The first task will take place on November the twenty-fourth, in front of the other students and the panel of judges.

"The champions are not permitted to ask for, or accept help of any kind from their teachers to complete the tasks in the tournament. The champions will face the first challenge armed only with their wands. They will receive information about the second task when the first is over. Owing to the demanding and time-consuming nature of the tournament, the champions are exempted from end-of-year tests."

Mr. Crouch turned to look at Dumbledore.

"I think that's all, is it, Albus?"

"I think so," Dumbledore, who was looking at Mr. Crouch with mild concern, said. "Are you sure you wouldn't like to stay at Hogwarts tonight, Barty?"

"No, Dumbledore, I must get back to the Ministry," Mr. Crouch said. "It is a very busy, very difficult time at the moment... I've left young Weatherby in charge... Very enthusiastic... a little overenthusiastic, if truth be told..."

"You'll come and have a drink before you go, at least?" Dumbledore asked.

"Come on, Barty, I'm staying!" Bagman said brightly. "It's all happening at Hogwarts now, you know, much more exciting here than at the office."

"I think not, Ludo," Crouch said with a touch of impatience.

"Professor Karkaroff, Madame Maxime, a nightcap?" Dumbledore asked, getting nods from the other heads.

"I shall just get Fleur back to ze carriage," Madame Maxime said, and Karkaroff nodded.

"And I shall just bring Viktor back."

As the four left the anteroom, Dumbledore turned to Harry.

"Harry, you should probably head off as well. It would be a shame to rob Gryffindor of this excellent excuse to make a great deal of mess and noise in celebration," he said, handing Harry the slip of parchment with his name on it.

Harry took it, nodded, and left the room.

Was anyone except Neville and Hermione going to believe him, or would they all think he'd put himself in for the tournament? Someone else had wanted him in the tournament, and had made sure he was entered. Why? It wasn't to get him killed, as Voldemort didn't want that. He wanted to use Harry for something... but what?

Harry got a shock to find himself facing the Fat Lady already. He had barely noticed where his feet were carrying him. It was also a surprise to see that she was not alone in her frame. The wizened witch who had flitted into her neighbor's painting when he had joined the champions downstairs was now sitting smugly beside the Fat Lady. She must have dashed through every picture lining seven staircases to reach here before him. Both she and the Fat Lady were looking down at him with the keenest interest.

"Well, well, well," the Fat Lady said, "Violet's just told me everything. Who's just been chosen as school champion, then?"

"Milady, please," Harry said pleasantly. He'd always gotten along with her, and they sometimes had very stimulating conversations with each other. "Balderdash, if you don't mind. I'm a little tired."

The Fat Lady nodded and swung forward on her hinges to let Harry into the common room.

The blast of noise that met Harry's ears when the portrait opened almost knocked him backward. Next thing he knew, he was being wrenched inside the common room by about a dozen pairs of hands, and was facing the whole of Gryffindor House, all of whom were screaming, applauding, and whistling.

"You should've told us you'd entered!" Ron Weasley bellowed. He looked half annoyed, half deeply impressed.

"I didn't," Harry said. "I don't know how-"

"We've got food, Harry, come and have some-"

Harry's eye gave a noticeable twitch, and he brought his hands to his mouth, letting loose a sharp whistle. The chatter quieted down, and Harry noticed that everyone were finally paying attention to him.

"I did not put my name in the Goblet of Fire, and I have no idea who did it. I had no intention of joining this silly tournament, nor do I want to compete. Right now, partying is the last thing I want to do. I'm going to bed."

With that, Harry climbed up to the dormitory as fast as he could.

To his great relief, he found Neville sitting in his bed in the otherwise empty dormitory, still fully dressed. He looked up when Harry slammed the door behind him.

Harry couldn't make any sense out of the look on Neville's face. He looked upset, and a little jealous. Harry was about to question it, when Neville broke out into a grin.

"You sure end up in lots of strange situations, don't you, Potter?"

Harry breathed a sigh of relief and tried to smack Neville on the head with his walking stick, only to find it blocked by Neville's own.

"You had me going there for a while, Longbottom," Harry said in mock anger. Neville grinned as he parried Harry's walking stick and stood up and countered all in one motion.

"I'm a natural born actor, aren't I?" Neville asked as Harry blocked. They fenced a little, using their walking sticks as swords. "So, any idea who put your name in that Goblet?"

"A few," Harry said, nodding. "But I don't want to reveal them until I have more evidence."

"Like always, then?" Neville asked asked as he parried a strike from Harry, and swatted him on the elbow.

"Ow!" Harry grunted as he rubbed his elbow. "Yep."

When Harry woke up on Sunday morning, it took him a moment to remember what had happened the night before. However, once he remembered, he sighed and sat up, deciding to play the violin for a little while.

Harry then dressed and went down the spiral staircase into the common room. The moment he appeared, the people who had already finished breakfast broke into applause again. The prospect of going down into the Great Hall and facing the rest of the Gryffindors, all treating him like some sort of hero, was not inviting. It was that, however, or stay here and allow himself to be cornered by the Creevey brothers, who were both beckoning frantically to him to join them. He walked resolutely over to the portrait hole, pushed it open, climbed out of it, and found himself face-to-face with Hermione.

"Hello," she said, holding up a stack of toast, which she was carrying in a napkin. "I brought you this... Want to go for a walk?"

"Good idea," Harry said gratefully.

They went downstairs, crossed the entrance hall quickly without looking in at the Great Hall, and were soon striding across the lawn toward the lake, where the Durmstrang ship was moored, reflected blackly in the water. It was a chilly morning, and they kept moving, munching their toast, as Harry told Hermione exactly what had happened after he had left the Gryffindor table the night before.

To his immense relief, Hermione accepted his story without question.

"Well, of course I knew you hadn't entered yourself," she said when he'd finished telling her about the scene in the chamber off the Hall. "But the question is, who did put it in? I don't think any student could have done it... they'd never be able to fool the Goblet, or get over Dumbledore's-"

"Have you seen Neville?" Harry interrupted.

Hermione opened her mouth to respond, but Harry spoke before she had a chance to.

"Why do I even ask, when he's standing right behind me?" he said, and felt a light bop on his shoulder, courtesy of Neville's walking stick.

"Good morning, Harry," Neville said pleasantly. "Had a good night's sleep?"

"Indeed I did," Harry said, nodding. "Though, I was, admittedly, worried."

"Worried?" Hermione asked in surprise. "You?"

"Yes," Harry said. "I have gone through every clue I've found, and I discovered something shocking... I've only found one clue..." He reached into his pocket and took out the slip of parchment with his name on it. "This."

"And what does it tell you?" Neville asked.

Harry shrugged. "There's a distinct scent on it, but I can't place it," he said, holding it out for his friends. "Smell it."

Hermione sniffed the paper, not able to recognize the scent. Then, Neville sniffed it, and his eyes widened.

"Wait, this..." he muttered as he grabbed the parchment and sniffed it. "Have you tried burning it?"

Harry nodded. "Pink flame, green burst."

"Knotgrass," Neville said immediately. "Professor Sprout told me about it. Essential ingredient for two things, well, those two are the most common uses for Knotgrass, anyway: Knotgrass Mead, and Polyjuice potion."

"And I doubt anyone has been brewing mead in Hogwarts," Harry said, smiling. "Very good, Neville," he said as he patted Neville on the back. "So, Polyjuice potion... I took a look at the spot where the goblet was, but I didn't find a clue..."

"I think you should write to Sirius," Hermione said, and Harry nodded.

"Yeah, he should be told."

They went up to the Owlery. Hermione gave Harry a piece of parchment, a quill, and a bottle of ink, then strolled around the long lines of perches with Neville, looking at all the different owls, while Harry sat down against a wall and wrote his letter.

Dear Sirius,

At the end of summer, you told me to keep you posted on what's happening at Hogwarts, so here you go. I got picked as the Hogwarts champion, even though I never put my name in the Goblet of Fire, and so far, I haven't a clue who put it in there.

Hope you're okay,

Harry.

P.S. Stay away from my files.

"Finished," he told his friends, getting to his feet and brushing straw off his pants. At this, Hedwig came fluttering down onto his shoulder and held out her leg. Harry tied the rolled-up parchment to her leg, and watched her fly off.

Things became almost unbearable for Harry. People seemed to love the fact that he was the Hogwarts champion. He didn't get a minute of peace, as people always came up to him to congratulate him or wish him luck. It was incredibly bothersome. The only times he got a bit of peace was when he expressed his feelings with his violin. The common room cleared out quickly after that. The next few weeks became the worst Harry had ever experienced. It was better two years earlier, when a large part of the school had suspected him of attacking his fellow students.

Luckily, though, the students' admiration was split between the three champions. The guys spent half the time admiring Harry, and the other half ogling Fleur, while the girls spent half the time admiring Harry, and half the time admiring Krum. Therefore, it was with a sigh that Harry knocked on Dumbledore's door upon being summoned, weary from all the time spent hiding from admirers.

"Come in."

Harry stepped into the office and nodded to Dumbledore.

"Good day, Professor."

"Ah, Harry, good day!" Dumbledore greeted, beaming at Harry. "How are you enjoying being the champion?"

"I don't," Harry said simply as he lit his pipe, sitting down at Dumbledore's urging. "It's hell... I can't get so much as a moment of peace and quiet to read, study, or work on cases without someone wishing me luck..."

"I am sorry to hear that," Dumbledore said, inclining his head toward Harry. "I experienced the same thing in nineteen forty-five."

"When you defeated Grindelwald, sir?"

"That is correct, Harry," Dumbledore said with a nod. "Yes, everywhere I went, I was being congratulated, asked for help, though the latter I did gladly, and I could not walk down the street without someone recognizing me. At first, it was most irritable, I admit, but one gets used to it."

Dumbledore put his elbows on his desk and pressed his fingertips together.

"But now, Harry, we need to talk. What have you found out about who entered you in this tournament?"

"I have only found a single clue," Harry said, reaching into his pocket and taking out the slip of parchment. "I detected a smell on this parchment that Neville identified as Knotgrass, and seeing as Professor Snape, no matter how much he hates me, would never do it, which leads me to believe that the culprit has either been making Knotgrass mead, or, in this case, most likely, brewing Polyjuice potion."

"Polyjuice?" Dumbledore asked, his eyebrows rising in surprise. "Do you have any suspects?"

"I have one," Harry said, "but I'd like to observe him some more."

The two sat in silence for a while. Then, Dumbledore spoke.

"You need a shave, my boy."

Harry scratched his chin and felt that stubble was, indeed, growing on his face. It was ridiculous. He'd shaved just yesterday...

"The weighing of the wands is today," Dumbledore said. "Are you sure you want to go looking like that?"

"I don't mind," Harry said, shrugging.

Later that day, Harry knocked on the door of a classroom on the ground floor and entered.

He was in a fairly small classroom. Most of the desks had been pushed away to the back of the room, leaving a large space in the middle. Three of them, however, had been placed end-to-end in front of the blackboard and covered with a long length of velvet. Five chairs had been set behind the velvet-covered desks, and Ludo Bagman was sitting in one of them, talking to a witch Harry had never seen before, who was wearing magenta robes.

Compared to Harry, who was wearing his shoes and trousers, a dirty, soft-collar shirt, black braces, and his silk scarf, she looked much more elegant. Well, actually, it was more like Harry looking shabby compared to everyone else.

Viktor Krum was standing moodily in a corner as usual and not talking to anybody. Fleur was standing in another corner, looking bored. When she looked at Harry, he saw exactly how much she liked his looks by the look on her face. A paunchy man, holding a large black camera that was smoking slightly, was watching Fleur out of the corner of his eye.

Bagman suddenly spotted Harry, got up quickly, and bounded forward.

"Ah, here he is! Champion number three! In you come, Harry, in you come... nothing to worry about, it's just the wand weighing ceremony, the rest of the judges will be here in a moment..."

"Wand weighing?" Harry asked, raising an eyebrow.

"We have to check that your wands are fully functional, no problems, you know, as they're your most important tools in the tasks ahead," Bagman said. "The expert's upstairs now with Dumbledore. And then there's going to be a little photo shoot. This is Rita Skeeter," he added, gesturing toward the witch in magenta robes. "She's doing a small piece on the tournament for the Daily Prophet..."

"Maybe not that small, Ludo," Rita Skeeter said, her eyes on Harry.

Her hair was set in elaborate and curiously rigid curls that contrasted oddly with her heavy-jawed face. She wore jeweled spectacles. The thick fingers clutching her crocodile-skin handbag ended in two-inch nails, painted crimson.

"Very nice to meet you, Miss Skeeter," Harry said, holding out a hand for Skeeter to shake. "Your words are like Basilisk venom. I would hate to be on your bad side."

"I'm charmed to meet you, Harry," Skeeter said, still gazing fixedly at him. "I wonder if I could have a little word with Harry before we start? The Hogwarts champion, you know... to add a bit of color?"

"Certainly!" Bagman cried. "That is, if Harry has no objection?"

"Not at all."

"Lovely," Skeeter said, and in a second, her scarlet-taloned fingers had Harry's upper arm in a surprisingly strong grip, and she was steering him out of the rom again and opening a nearby door.

"We don't want to be in there with all that noise," she said, although everyone had been very quiet. "Let's see... ah, yes, this is nice and cozy."

It was a broom cupboard. Harry stared at her.

"Come along, dear, that's right... lovely," Skeeter said again, perching herself precariously upon an upturned bucket, pushing Harry down onto a cardboard box, and closing the door, throwing them into darkness. "Let's see now..."

She unsnapped her crocodile-skin handbag and pulled out a handful of candles, which she lit with a wave of her wand and magicked into midair, so that they could see what they were doing.

"You won't mind, Harry, if I use a Quick-Quotes Quill? It leaves me free to talk to you normally..."

"I do, actually, but I suspect you don't care."

Skeeter's smile widened. Harry counted three gold teeth. She reached again into her crocodile bag and drew out a long, acid-green quill and a roll of parchment, which she stretched out between them on a crate of Mrs. Skower's All-Purpose Magical Mess Remover. She put the tip of the green quill into her mouth, sucked it for a moment with apparent relish, then placed it upright on the parchment, where it stood balanced on its point, quivering slightly.

"Testing... my name is Rita Skeeter, Daily Prophet reporter."

Harry looked down quickly at the quill. The moment Skeeter had spoken, the green quill had started to scribble, skidding across the parchment:

Attractive blonde Rita Skeeter, forty-three, whose savage quill has punctured many inflated reputations...

"Lovely," Skeeter said yet again, and she ripped the top piece of parchment off, crumpled it up, and stuffed it into her handbag. "So, Harry... what made you decide to enter the Triwizard Tournament?"

"I didn't," Harry said, and was about to speak again, when he looked down at the parchment, where the quill was dashing across the parchment, and in its wake he could make out a fresh sentence:

An ugly scar, souvenir of a tragic past, disfigure the otherwise charming, if a bit shabby, face of Harry Potter, whose eyes-

"Ignore the quill, Harry," Skeeter said firmly. "Now, again, why did you decide to enter the tournament, Harry?"

"I didn't," Harry repeated. "I don't know how my name got into the Goblet of Fire. I didn't put it there, but I intend to find out who did."

"Ah, a mystery, then? Another mystery worthy of Harry Potter?" Skeeter asked, her eyes glittering with interest. "Now, Harry, I have heard that you've got amazing powers of deduction. Care to show me?"

"I'd be happy to, but I would no doubt offend you," Harry said, to which Skeeter gave a faint laugh.

"Come now, Harry, I wouldn't be where I am today if I was easily offended."

"Very well. You were unpopular in school, probably bullied," Harry said, seeing Skeeter's eyes widen slightly. "You make a living bringing people down, bullying them like you were once bullied. You dress as nice and luxurious as possible, to hide the fact that you were poor as a child, further adding fuel to the bullies' fire, and the slight widening of your eyes at my deduction just proved that I was right. That was the easy one. Here's a harder one. The small scars on your hand and the side of your neck tell me that you were attacked by a Dark Wizard, judging by the fading of the scar tissue, about six years ago, and ever since then, you have made it a point to attack them with your quill whenever you get the chance, hence the fervor with which you wrote the article about me catching Macnair."

Skeeter sat, gaping, for a moment. Then, she shook her head to recover from her shock and smiled at Harry.

"Brilliant deduction, Harry. However, I wasn't bullied when I was-"

"You also tend to blink twice in quick succession when you lie, an act of appearing innocent, a common trait in liars," Harry interrupted with a smirk.

"Anyway, back to the questions, then? Can you remember your parents at all?"

"I can remember their voices, from the night that they died," Harry said calmly as he took out his pipe, putting it in his mouth. "Then, all I remember is the green flash of the Killing Curse."

"How do you think they'd feel if they knew you were competing in the Triwizard Tournament? Proud? Worried? Angry?"

"I think that, if they were alive, my parents would be proud. My father would congratulate me, and my mother would probably give me a scolding I doubt I'd recover from."

Harry looked down at the words the quill had just written:

Tears fill those startling green eyes as our conversation turns to the parents he can barely remember.

Fast enough to startle Skeeter, Harry whipped out his wand and flicked it at the parchment, watching as that last part was erased. He was about to speak, but before he could do that, the door of the broom cupboard was pulled open. Harry looked around, blinking in the bright light. Albus Dumbledore stood there, looking down at both of them, squashed into the cupboard.

"Dumbledore!" Skeeter cried with every appearance of delight, but Harry noticed that her quill and the parchment had vanished from the box of Magical Mess Remover, and Skeeter's clawed fingers were hastily snapping shut the clasp of her crocodile-skin bag. "How are you?" she asked, standing up and holding out one of her large, mannish hands to Dumbledore. "I hope you saw my piece over the summer about the International Confederation of Wizards' Conference?"

"Enchantingly nasty," Dumbledore said, his eyes twinkling. "I particularly enjoyed your description of me as an obsolete dingbat."

Skeeter didn't look remotely abashed.

"I was just making the point that some of your ideas are a little old-fashioned, Dumbledore, and that many wizards in the street-"

"I will be delighted to hear the reasoning behind the rudeness, Rita," Dumbledore said with a courteous bow and a smile, "but I'm afraid we will have to discuss the matter later. The Weighing of the Wands is about to start, and it cannot take place if one of our champions is hidden in a broom cupboard."

Very glad to get away from Skeeter, Harry hurried back into the room. The other champions were now sitting in chairs near the door, and he sat down quickly next to Fleur, looking up at the velvet-covered table, where four of the five judges were now sitting, Karkaroff, Madame Maxime, Mr. Crouch, and Ludo Bagman. Rita Skeeter settled herself down in a corner. Harry saw her slip the parchment out of her bag again, spread it on her knee, suck the end of the Quick-Quotes Quill, and place it once more on the parchment.

"May I introduce Mr. Ollivander?" Dumbledore said, taking his place at the judges' table and talking to the champions. "He will be checking your wands to ensure that they are in good condition before the tournament."

Harry looked around, and with a jolt of surprise saw an old wizard with large, pale eyes standing quietly by the window. Harry had met Mr. Ollivander before, he was the wand-maker from whom Harry had bought his own wand over six years ago in Diagon Alley.

"Mademoiselle Delacour, could we have you first, please?" Mr. Ollivander said, stepping into the empty space in the middle of the room.

Fleur swept over to Mr. Ollivander and handed him her wand.

"Hmmm..." he hummed.

He twirled the wand between his long fingers like a baton and it emitted a number of pink and gold sparks. Then he held it close to his eyes and examined it carefully.

"Yes," he said quietly, "nine and a half inches... inflexible... rosewood... and containing... dear me..."

"An 'air from ze 'ead of a veela," Fleur said. "One of my grandmuzzer's."

So, Harry's theory was correct, then. Fleur was part veela. Well, now his bet with Neville was won, at least.

"Yes," Mr. Ollivander said, "yes, I've never used veela hair myself, of course. I find it makes for rather temperamental wands... however, to each his own, and if this suits you..."

Mr. Ollivander ran his fingers along the wand, apparently checking for scratches or bumps. Then, he muttered, "Orchideus!" and a bouquet of flowers burst from the wand tip.

"Very well, very well, it's in fine working order," Mr. Ollivander said, handing Fleur the bouquet and her wand. "Mr. Krum, you're next."

Viktor Krum got up and slouched, round-shouldered and duck-footed, toward Mr. Ollivander as Fleur glided past him back to her seat. He thrust his wand and stood scowling, with his hands in the pockets of his robes.

"Hm," Mr. Ollivander said, "this is a Gregorovitch creation, unless I'm much mistaken? A fine wand-maker, though the styling is never quite what I... however..."

He lifted the wand and examined it minutely, turning it over and over before his eyes.

"Yes... hornbeam and dragon heartstring?" he shot at Krum, who nodded. "Rather thicker than one usually sees... quite rigid... ten and a quarter inches... Avis!"

The hornbeam wand let off a blast like a gun, and a number of small, twittering birds flew out of the end and through the open window into the watery sunlight.

"Good," Mr. Ollivander said, handing Krum back his wand. "Which leaves... Mr. Potter."

Harry got to his feet and walked past Krum to Mr. Ollivander, handing over his wand.

"Aaaah, yes," Mr. Ollivander said, his pale eyes suddenly gleaming. "Yes, yes, yes. How well I remember."

Harry could remember too. He could remember it as though it was yesterday...

Seven summers ago, on his eleventh birthday, he had entered Mr. Ollivander's shop with Hagrid to buy a wand. Mr. Ollivander had taken his measurements and then started handing him wands to try. Harry had waved what felt like every wand in the shop, until at last he had found the one that suited him, this one, which was made of holly, eleven inches long, and contained a single feather from the tail of a phoenix. Mr. Ollivander had been very surprised that Harry had been so compatible with this wand. "Curious," he had said, "curious," and not until Harry asked what was curious had Mr. Ollivander explained that the phoenix feather in Harry's wand had come from the same bird that had supplied the core of Lord Voldemort's.

Harry had never shared this piece of information with anybody. He was very fond of his wand, and as far as he was concerned, its relation to Voldemort's wand was something it couldn't help, rather as he couldn't help being related to Aunt Petunia. However, he really hoped that Mr. Ollivander wasn't about to tell the room about it. He had a funny feeling Rita Skeeter's Quick-Quotes Quill might just explode with excitement if he did.

Mr. Ollivander spent much longer examining Harry's wand than anyone else's. Eventually, however, he made a fountain of wine shoot out of it, and handed it back to Harry, announcing that it was still in perfect condition.

"Thank you all," Dumbledore said, standing up at the judges' table. You may go back to your lessons now, or perhaps it would be quicker just to go down to dinner, as they are about to end..."

Feeling very relieved to be able to go get something to eat, Harry got up to leave, but the man with the black camera jumped up and cleared his throat.

"Photos, Dumbledore, photos!" Bagman cried excitedly. "All the judges and champions, what do you think, Rita?"

"Er... yes, let's do those first," Skeeter said, her eyes once again upon Harry. "And then perhaps some individual shots."

The photographs took a long time. Madame Maxime cast everyone else into shadow wherever she stood, and the photographer couldn't stand far enough back to get her into the frame. Eventually she had to sit while everyone else stood around her. Karkaroff kept twirling his goatee around his finger to give it an extra curl, Krum, whom Harry would have thought would have been used to this sort of thing, skulked, half-hidden, at the back of the group. The photographer seemed keenest to get Fleur at the front, but Rita Skeeter kept hurrying forward and dragging Harry into greater prominence, who was quickly followed by Fleur. Then she insisted on separate shots of all the champions. At last, they were free to go.

When he got back to his dormitory after dinner, he found Hedwig sitting on the headboard of his bed, waiting for him with a letter.

"Thanks, girl," he said as he strode over, stroked her feathers, took the letter off her leg, and unrolled it.

Harry,

We need to talk face-to-face. Can you ensure that you are alone by the fire in Gryffindor Tower at one o'clock in the morning on the 22nd of November?

I know better than anyone that you can look after yourself, and while you're around Dumbledore and Moody, I don't think anyone will be able to hurt you. However, someone seems to be having a good try. Entering you in that tournament would have been very risky, especially right under Dumbledore's nose.

Be on the watch, Harry. I still want to hear about anything unusual. Let me know about the 22nd of November as quickly as you can.

Sirius

"Thank you for coming."

"Not at all. I'm glad to get away from school."

Harry was standing outside a house at Number Three, Lauriston Gardens, off the Brixton Road, with Madam Bones, the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Neville, and a tall, grumpy-looking Auror named Savage.

"I hope, Madam, that you don't mind me bringing Neville along?" Harry asked politely, gesturing for Neville, who nodded in greeting. "I find him to be excellent company."

"Not at all, Mr. Potter, so long as there is no interference in the investigation."

"I assure you, judging by how your men have obliterated any potential evidence out here, that there will be much less interference from him than from your men," Harry said, and Neville felt his face heat up in embarrassment when Savage glared at him.

Number Three, Lauriston Gardens wore an ill-omened and minatory look. It was one of four which stood back some little way from the street, two being occupied and two empty. The latter looked out with three tiers of vacant melancholy windows, which were blank and dreary, save that here and there a 'To Let' card had developed like a cataract upon the bleared panes. A small garden sprinkled over with a scattered eruption of sickly plants separated each of these houses from the street, and was traversed by a narrow pathway, yellowish in color, and consisting apparently of a mixture of clay and gravel. The whole place was very sloppy from the rain which had fallen through the night. The garden was bounded by a three-foot brick wall with a fringe of wood rails upon the top, and against this wall was leaning another Auror, surrounded by a lot of spectators, who craned their necks and strained their eyes in the vain hope of catching some glimpse of the proceedings within.

Neville would have thought that Harry would have at once hurried into the house and plunged into a study of the mystery. Nothing appeared to be further from his intention, though. With an air of nonchalance which, under the circumstances, seemed to Neville to border upon affectation, he lounged up and down the pavement, and gazed vacantly at the ground, the sky, the opposite houses, and the line of railings.

Having finished his scrutiny, Harry proceeded slowly down the path, or rather down the fringe of grass which flanked the path, keeping his eyes riveted on the ground. Twice he stopped, and once Neville saw him smile, and heard him utter an exclamation of satisfaction. There were many marks of footsteps upon the wet clayey soil, but since the Aurors had been coming and going over it, Neville was unable to see how his companion could hope to learn anything from it. Still, he had had such extraordinary evidence of the quickness of his perceptive faculties, that he had no doubt that Harry could see a great deal which was hidden from Neville.

At the door, they were met by a man who looked rather like an old lion with grey streaks in his mane of tawny hair and bushy eyebrows. He had keen yellowish eyes and wore wire-rimmed spectacles, with a notebook and quill in one hand, and a walking stick in his other.

"Mr. Potter," the man said, nodding in greeting. "I am Rufus Scrimgeour, Head of the Auror Office. As per Madam Bones' orders, I have left everything untouched."

"Except that, of course," Harry said with a hint of an accusing tone, pointing at the pathway. "If a herd of buffaloes had passed along, there couldn't be a greater mess. No doubt, however, you had drawn your own conclusions before you permitted this," he guessed in amusement.

"I have had much to do inside the house," Scrimgeour said evasively. "My colleague, Auror Dawlish, is here. I had relied upon him to look after this."

Harry glanced at Neville and raised his eyebrows sardonically. "With two men such as yourself and Dawlish on the site, there won't be much for a third party to find out," he said.

Scrimgeour rubbed his hands in a self-satisfied way. "I think we have done all that can be done," he answered. "It's a queer case, though, and Madam Bones knew your taste for such things."

"Then let us go look at the room," Harry said, and with that he strode into the house followed by Neville and Scrimgeour.

A short passage, bare-planked and dusty, led to the kitchen and offices. Two doors opened out of it to the left and to the right. One of these had obviously been closed for many weeks. The other belonged to the dining room, which was the apartment in which the mysterious affair had occurred. Harry walked in, and Neville followed with a subdued feeling in his heart. He had never truly seen a dead person before.

It was a large square room, looking all the larger from the absence of all furniture. A vulgar flaring paper adorned the walls, but it was blotched in places with mildew, and here and there great strips had become detached and hung down, exposing the yellow plaster beneath. Opposite the door was a showy fireplace, surmounted by a mantelpiece of imitation white marble. On one corner of this was stuck the stump of a red wax candle. The solitary window was so dirty that the light was hazy and uncertain, giving a dull, gray tinge to everything, which was intensified by the thick layer of dust which coated the whole apartment.

All those details, Neville observed afterwards. At present, his attention was centered upon the single, grim, motionless figure which laid stretched upon the boards, with vacant, sightless eyes staring up at the discolored ceiling. It was that of a man about forty-three or forty-four years of age, middle-sized, broad-shouldered, with crisp, curling black hair, and a short, stubbly beard. He was dressed in all black robes of fine silk, a black winter cloak, and on the floor next to him was a black bowler hat. The worst, however, was his pose.

His hands were clenched and his arms thrown abroad, while his lower limbs were interlocked, as though his death struggle had been a grievous one. On his rigid face there was an expression of horror, and, as it seemed to Neville, of hatred, hatred to such an extent that he had never seen on a human being before.

This malignant and terrible contortion, combined with the low forehead, blunt nose and prognathous jaw, gave the dead man a singularly simious and ape-like appearance, which was increased by his writhing, unnatural posture.

Neville had never seen death before, unless you counted his great aunt passing away, so the sight of this fearsome form of death left him feeling very uneasy. He was greatly surprised at how calm Harry appeared. Then again, Harry looked at things differently. To Harry, this was a crime scene, and everything was evidence. He probably didn't see a dead body. He probably just saw a well of information.

Another Auror, who looked very capable and self-assured, a tough-looking wizard with very short, wiry gray hair, came into the room, greeting Neville and Harry and introducing himself as John Dawlish.

"This case will make a stir," he remarked. "It beats anything I have seen."

"There is no clue?" Scrimgeour asked.

"None at all."

Harry approached the body and, kneeling down, examined it intently. "You are sure there is no wound?" he asked.

"Positive!" both Aurors cried.

Harry nodded, his nimble fingers flying here, there, and everywhere, feeling, pressing, unbuttoning, examining, while his eyes wore the same far-away expression which Neville had seen so many times before. So swiftly was the examination made that one would hardly have guessed the minuteness with which it was conducted. Finally, he sniffed the dead man's lips, and then glanced at the soles of his patent leather boots.

"He hasn't been moved at all?" he asked.

"No more than was necessary for the purpose of our examination."

"You can take him away now," Harry said. "There is nothing more to be learned."

Neville was amazed at Harry's ability to overlook the fact that he had been poking and sniffing a dead body, as Scrimgeour levitated the body out of the room.

"Mr. Dawlish, may I have the room, please?"

"Certainly," Dawlish said with a nod and left the room, leaving Neville and Harry alone.

"Did you recognize the man?" Harry asked Neville, who nodded.

"He looked almost like Marcus Flint."

"Indeed, and with the identical outer ears, or pinnas, which are only passed down through direct bloodline, it leaves us to conclude that this was Eldric Flint, Marcus Flint's father."

As he spoke, he whipped a tape measure and a large round magnifying glass from his pocket. With these two implements he trotted noiselessly about the room, sometimes stopping, occasionally kneeling, and once lying flat upon his face. So engrossed was he with his occupation that once more he seemed to have forgotten about Neville's presence, because he chattered away to himself under his breath the whole time, keeping up a running fire of exclamations, groans, whistles, and little cries suggestive of encouragement and of hope.

For twenty minutes or more he continued with his researches, measuring with the most exact care the distance between marks which were entirely invisible to Neville, and occasionally applying his tape to the walls in an equally incomprehensible manner. This done, he appeared to be satisfied, as he replaced his tape and glass in his pocket.

"They say genius is an infinite capacity for taking pains," he remarked with a smile. "It's a very bad definition, but it does apply to detective work."

"What do you mean?" Neville asked, raising an eyebrow curiously. Now that the body was gone, he was feeling more at ease.

"I mean, the cases are solved," Harry said happily.

"Cases? Plural?"

"Yes, the Hogwarts case is also solved. The murderer here was more than six feet high, was in the prime of his life, had a three-toed wooden leg, and wore a heavy boot on his good leg. He was also very proficient in potions, capable of creating a deadly poison known as the Kiss of Death."

"Wait..." Neville said, blinking. "Wooden leg? You mean...?"

"Who only recently came to Hogwarts, Neville?" Harry asked, his eyes glittering. "Who is the only faculty member who drinks from a flask every hour on the hour?"

Neville's eyes widened as the Galleon dropped. "Professor Moody!"

"Very good, Neville."

"I think it is best if we keep this information to ourselves," Harry told Dumbledore, sitting in the headmaster's office. "We need to see what his goal is."

"I agree," Dumbledore said with a nod. "I shall keep him under close watch, and if Professor Snape complains to me about you stealing from his supplies again, I can with certainty deny your involvement. But for now, I believe you should see this article, page six."

Dumbledore's beard was twitching as he handed over that day's copy of the Daily Prophet. Harry took it and flipped over to page six, ignoring the front page, which had mostly featured Harry.

Harry has at last found love at Hogwarts. His close

friend, Colin Creevey, says that Harry is rarely seen

out of the company of one Hermione Granger, a

stunningly pretty Muggle-born girl who, like Harry,

is one of the top students in the school.

"What is this rubbish?" Harry asked, gesturing for the newspaper. "I can agree that she is stunningly pretty, but Hermione and I? What had Skeeter been drinking?"

Dumbledore chuckled. "Now you see first-hand how Rita Skeeter tends to stretch the truth in her articles."

"Yeah, stretching it until it can no longer be stretched..." Harry muttered. Then, he slapped the paper with a sigh. "Well, at least she focused more on my incredible deductive skills, rather than making up some lies about how I cry for my parents or something silly like that," he reasoned.

"Yes, she made a surprisingly nasty mockery of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement."

"With people like Dawlish on the force, I can't say that I'm surprised," Harry said with a shrug, which got a chuckle from Dumbledore.

"My boy, you need to remember that not everyone is as mentally developed as you are."

Harry just hummed.

"You surprise me, Harry," Neville said in the common room that night. "How did you determine the man's height without any writing to look at? In fact, how did you deduce what you deduced?"

Harry sighed. Neville knew Harry disliked explaining himself, but he liked the admiration just as much as he disliked the explaining, so usually, he only needed a few seconds to decide on what to do.

"The very first thing I observed when we arrived at the scene was that, in the myriad of footprints on the path to the house, there was a most peculiar footprint. The footprint had three sharp toes and a sharp heel. As for the height, a man's height, in nine cases out of ten, can be told by the length of his stride. It's a simple enough calculation, but I won't bore you with figures. I had this fellow's stride both in the clay outside, and on the dust within. It was child's play."

"And his age?"

"Well, if a man can stride four and a half feet without the smallest effort, dragging a body with him, he can't be quite in the sere and yellow. There is no mystery about it at all." Neville opened his mouth to speak, but Harry answered before he could ask his question, "There was mud smeared on only the heels of Mr. Flint's shoes, and drag marks were barely visible in the mud."

"But Moody isn't in the prime of his life."

"No, but the man masquerading as Moody is."

"So, the reason you sniffed his mouth...?"

"Was to see what kind of poison he had been fed. The imposter had reverted to his normal self, which my glass told me during my investigation, probably after he fed the victim the poison, which is the reason for the expression on the victim's face. Obviously, he knew the culprit."

At the mention of Mr. Flint's expression, the image of the body on the ground flashed in Neville's mind, and he felt himself starting to feel ill.

"How do you do it?" Neville asked, swallowing the bile that had started rising in his throat.

"Hm?" Harry hummed, lighting his pipe.

"How do you remain so... calm... around dead people."

"This is the sixth murder I have investigated," Harry said. "My first murder scene left me feeling like I was going to be sick, but I merely gritted my teeth and told myself the truth. It was a dead body, and no amount of feeling ill was going to bring him back to life. It's logic. The only decent thing to do is to catch the killer, not feeling ill about the corpse."

Neville hummed, deciding to try to get the image out of his head by changing the subject.

"Hogsmeade this weekend."

"Rosmerta's mead?" Harry asked, a smirk on his face, and they both nodded at each other.

Neville leaned back in his chair and watched his friend, who happily picked up a book by his tobacco case and started reading it, humming a tune to himself. Harry truly was extraordinary, as his powers of deduction still managed to surprise Neville.

"I need a new hobby..." Neville muttered to himself, realizing (just now) that he was one of the many who had 'admiring Harry Potter' as a hobby. Oh well, that was all going to change once school was out, and he started studying to be a Healer at St. Mungo's.

Oh, what was he thinking? He'd still admire Harry Bloody Potter...

"Damn you," Neville muttered, glaring at Harry, who hummed and raised an eyebrow.

"You say something?"

"I said, damn you."

"Oh... Alright."

With that, Harry went back to his book.

Harry Potter, fourteen, the great detective, the Boy-

Who-Lived is, I think, a man that we would all like

to get to know a little closer. A boy whose parents

were torn from him at so early an age has now gr-

own up to become one of the world's greatest minds

since Albus Dumbledore. Sources confirm...

Fleur Delacour put down her newspaper in thought. Harry James Potter... The boy intrigued her, if she was honest with herself. Well, not so much a boy as a man. He had done things that many wizards twice his age, if Neville Longbottom's books were to be believed, would be too afraid to do. Not to mention, he could apparently make grand deductions out of the littlest details, and had a brilliant mind.

But everything about him said otherwise! His dress sense may have been fitting for a Muggle back in the nineteenth century, and even that Fleur could have managed to put up with, but he was also unshaven and looked like he hadn't showered in days. He looked lazy, and, from the times she had passed that Fat Lady portrait, couldn't play the violin very well.

But then she listened to rumors around the castle. Harry Potter had helped more people than Fleur could count, finding missing pets, missing clothes, jewelry, solving thefts and pranks from merely glancing at the crime scenes and asking questions. It was all so confusing to Fleur.

Fleur had been intending on talking to Potter, to see if he really was all that the newspapers and books made him out to be, but when she ran into one of his friends, she was told that Harry Potter had gone off to look at a case outside the castle, requested by the head of the British Department of Magical Law Enforcement herself!

Fleur was going to find out a bit more about Harry Potter, but how to do that? Ah, he was supposed to be a great detective. Then all she needed to do was commit a smaller crime, to see if he could follow the clues back to her.

It is a strange thing, but when you are dreading something, and would give anything to slow down time, it has a disobliging habit of speeding up. The days untl the first task seemed to slip by as though someone had fixed the clocks to work at double speed. Harry's feeling on excitement mixed with panic was with him wherever he went.

Luckily, the Saurday before the task, all students in the third year and above were permitted to visit Hogsmeade. Neville said that it would do Harry good to get away from the castle for a bit, and with the promise of Rosmerta's mead, Harry didn't need much persuasion.

"What about Hermione, though?" Neville asked as they made their way down out of the castle and down the road to Hogsmeade. "Shouldn't we wait for her?"

"She's a bit busy at the moment."

And with that enigmatic answer, Harry walked off, whistling to himself.

"Harry, darling!"

Harry and Neville froze when they reached the Three Broomsticks. Rita Skeeter and her photographer friend, who he'd heard was named Bozo, had just emerged from the pub.

"Good day, Miss Skeeter," Harry greeted, tipping his hat toward Skeeter, Neville doing the same.

"Oh, please, Harry, call me Rita."

"Very well, Rita. I just wanted to inform you that you got some of your facts wrong regarding Hermione and I. She's a good friend, but I do not have a love interest at present."

"Well, I'll be sure to correct that," Skeeter said with a brilliant smile. "But be warned, you may find yourself catching the attention of many young girl who wish to be the future Mrs. Potter!"

"I don't care about that," Harry shrugged.

Skeeter just smiled, and with a wave, she left with Bozo.

The Three Broomsticks was packed, mainly with Hogwarts students enjoying their free afternoon, but also with a variety of magical people Harry rarely saw anywhere else. Harry supposed that Hogsmeade was the only all-wizard village in Britain. Well, the only famous one, at least. It was a bit of a haven for creatures like hags, who were not as adept as wizards at disguising themselves.

"Two pints of your delicious oak-matured mead, Rosy," Harry said to Rosmerta as he reached the bar, while Neville went over to get a booth.

"Coming right up, Harry," Rosmerta said with a wink to Harry, who smiled, grabbing the two pints when she gave them to him and walking over to the booth Neville had picked out.

The two sat in silence, sipping their mead, watching the people in the pub. All of them looked cheerful and relaxed. Ernie Macmillan and Hannah Abbot were swapping Chocolate Frog cards at a nearby table. Harry saw Neville glancing at Hannah, who glanced back at him, and they both looked away with a blush.

Right over by the door was a large group of Ravenclaws, who were chatting amicably with each other. A patron was stuffing one of Rosmerta's silver spoons into his pocket. Another patron was flirting with Rosmerta, with little success, and-

"Harry!"

Harry jumped and glanced at Neville, who shook his head.

"You zoned out."

"Oh, thank you, Neville," Harry said, shaking his head to clear it.

He thought about Sirius, and the tight, tense knot in his chest seemed to ease slightly. He would be speaking to him in just over twelve hours, for tonight was the night they were meting at the common room fire. Assuming, of course, that nothing went wrong.

"Look, it's Hagrid," Neville said.

The back of Hagrid's enormous shaggy head emerged over the crowd. Harry wondered why he hadn't spotted him at once, as Hagrid was so large, but standing up, he saw that Hagrid had been leaning low, talking to the Imposter Moody.

"I don't see why we don't just expose him," Neville muttered, sipping his mead as he glared at the imposter.

"Because, Neville, at the spot where the body was found, after dumping it, he talked to himself."

Neville blinked. "What? How could you tell that?" he asked.

"Because on the floor, I saw that he had been walking back and forth growing more and more either excited or, more likely, angry, for he raised his voice at the body of the floor, causing spittle to fly out of his mouth-"

"Which is how you deduced it," Neville finished for him, and Harry nodded.

"Therefore, it is in our best interest to pretend that we know nothing," Harry said simply, observing the two as they received their drinks. Hagrid had his usual enormous tankard in front of him, but 'Moody' was drinking from his hip flask. Slowly closed his eyes, blocking out all the sounds around him, leaving only the smells. He smelled wine, mulled mead, all kinds of scents. But then, he picked up on it, the disgusting smell of 'Moody's' Polyjuice. His eyes snapped open.

"It's him, alright," he said, drinking deeply from his pint.

As Harry watched, he saw Hagrid and Moody get up to leave. Moody, however, paused, his magical eye now fixed on Harry. He tapped Hagrid in the small of the back (being unable to reach his shoulder), muttered something to him, and then left the pub. Hagrid, however, remained, and instead made his way across the pub toward Harry and Neville's booth.

"'Ello, Harry, Neville, how are you two?" he asked happily, and they both tipped their hats toward him.

"We're just fine, Hagrid. And yourself?" Neville asked pleasantly.

"I'm alrigh', I'm alrigh'," Hagrid said, glancing around rather nervously. Then, he bent down over the table to whisper to Harry, "Meet me tonight at midnight at me cabin. Wear yer cloak."

Straightening up, Hagrid said loudly, "Nice ter see yeh, boys," winked, and departed.

"Why does Hagrid want you to meet him at midnight?" Neville asked, very surprised, but Harry just shrugged.

"I took that 'you' as meaning us," he said. "Should we?"

"I have nothing better to do," Neville said, shrugging. "But it might make you late for Sirius."

After finishing their mead, the two decided to take a stroll through Hogsmeade. When they reached the fence that closed off the Shrieking Shack, Harry leaned against the fence, and with a peaceful smile looked toward Hogwarts and said, "Beautiful, isn't she?"

Neville nodded.

"She is," he agreed. "But we've already established that many times. Why again?"

Harry just gave a shrug as his smile widened. He took out his pipe, loaded and lit it, still smiling.

"One can never admire her beauty enough," he said softly. "Just as one could never hope to find out all of her secrets in a single lifetime. It'll be sad to leave her."

"We could always come back after school," Neville said, shrugging. "I mean, Rosmerta's mead is too delicious for you to resist."

"I don't know," Harry said thoughtfully. "I just get this funny feeling that after this year, I'll never see her again," he murmured, staring at the beautiful castle in the distance.

It was true that going down to Hagrid's at midnight would mean cutting his meeting with Sirius very fine indeed, but Harry's curiosity got the better of him.

Therefore, at half past eleven that evening, Harry and Neville, who had pretended to go up to bed early, pulled the Invisibility Cloak over themselves and crept downstairs through the common room. Quite a few people were still in there. They crept past them all to the portrait hole and waited for a minute or so, Harry keeping an eye on his watch. Then, Hermione opened the Fat Lady for them from outside as they had planned. Harry and Neville slipped past her with a whispered "Thanks!" and set off through the castle.


	16. Chapter 16

"Bloody dragons!" Neville hissed as they reached the castle, slipped in through the front doors, and began to climb the marble stairs. They were very out of breath, but they couldn't slow down, having less than five minutes to get up to the fire.

"Balderdash!" Harry said to the Fat Lady, who was snoozing in her frame in front of the portrait hole.

"If you say so," she muttered sleepily, without opening her eyes, and the picture swung forward to admit them. Harry and Neville climbed inside and found that the common room was deserted. Judging by the smell, Hermione had not needed to set off any Dungbombs to ensure that he and Sirius got privacy.

Harry pulled off the Invisibility Cloak and threw himself into his usual armchair in front of the fire, Neville doing the same, both of them panting. The room was in semidarkness. The flames were the only source of light.

A spinning shape was visible in the flames, and in the blink of an eye, Sirius' head appeared in them, smiling up at Harry and Neville. He looked much better now than he had in Azkaban. His hair was short and clean now, his face was fuller, and he looked much younger, much more like the only photograph Harry had of him, which had been taken at the Potters' wedding.

"Hi, Sirius," Harry said happily. "How are you?"

"Hello, boys," Sirius greeted. "I'm fine, thanks. And you two?"

"Great."

"Couldn't be better."

"I'm just going to face a dragon."

"Harry's just going to face a bloody dragon!" Neville hissed, his panic showing.

Harry talked more now than he had for a long time. He talked about how he hadn't entered the tournament of his own free will, how Rita Skeeter had lied about him in the Prophet, how he couldn't walk down a corridor without being cheered for or wished good luck...

"...and now Hagrid's just shown me that the first task is dragons. A Conjunctivitis Curse would do well if I manage to hit it in the eye, but with a panel of judges watching me, it's not very flashy, is it? What do you think?"

"I think..." Sirius started thoughtfully. "I think that you should show them all that you're not just a new generation Dumbledore in mind, but also in magic. Give them a show they'll never forget," he said with a smile.

Harry and Neville looked at each other, then grinned.

"However, there is something else I need to talk to you about," Sirius said, his smile disappearing. "You should know, Karkaroff was a Death Eater, you know that, right?"

"I do now," Harry said, his eyes widening.

"He was caught, he was in Azkaban with me, but he got released," Sirius said. "I'd bet that's why Dumbledore wanted an Auror at Hogwarts this year, to keep an eye on him. Moody caught Karkaroff. Put him into Azkaban in the first place."

"Karkaroff got released?" Harry asked, his brain working overtime. "Gave the Ministry names?"

"And gave the whole story of seeing the error of his ways," Sirius said bitterly. "Now, I've been keeping an eye on the Prophet, and I've been reading between the lines of that Skeeter woman's article last month. Moody was attacked the night before he started at Hogwarts. Yes, I know she says it was another false alarm," Sirius said hastily, seeing Harry about to speak, "but I don't think so, somehow. I think someone tried to stop him from getting to Hogwarts."

"Someone did," Harry said before Sirius could speak again, and he told Sirius his theory of the imposter Moody.

"But if there's someone pretending to be Moody..." the shocked Sirius muttered. "I've been hearing some very strange things. The Death Eaters seem to be a bit more active than usual lately. I mean, they showed themselves at the Quidditch World Cup... Someone set off the Dark Mark... and then, did you hear about that Ministry of Magic witch who's gone missing?"

"Bertha Jorkins?" Harry asked, and Sirius nodded.

"Exactly... she disappeared in Albania, and that's definitely where Voldemort was rumored to be last... and she wwould have known the Triwizard Tournament was coming up, wouldn't she?"

"Yeah, but... it's not very likely she'd have walked straight into Voldemort, is it?" Neville asked.

"Listen, I knew Bertha Jorkins," Sirius said grimly. "She was at Hogwarts when I was, a few years above your dad and me. And she was an idiot. Very nosy, but no brains, none at all. It's not a good combination, boys. I'd say she'd be very easy to lure into a trap.

"So... so Voldemort could have found out about the tournament?" Neville asked. "Is that what you mean? You think the imposter might be here on his orders?"

"I don't know," said Sirius slowly, "I just don't know... Since Karkaroff doesn't strike me as the type who'd go back to Voldemort unless he knew Voldemort was powerful enough to protect him, then whoever it is, it's someone fanatically loyal to Voldemort. But whoever it is that put your name in that goblet did it for a reason, and I can't help thinking the tournament would be a very good way to attack you and make it look like an accident."

Harry hummed in thought as he lit his pipe.

"Well, the third book is finished and off to the publisher," Neville said with a happy sigh as he sat down in his usual armchair next to Harry, who was reading a book.

"Congratulations, Neville. A new best-seller, I'm sure."

"Hey..." Neville muttered, looking over the book. "Why are you reading my Healer book? You... You're not gonna...?"

"No, of course not, but as I told McGonagall, one can never have too much information," Harry said simply.

"Shouldn't you rather be reading books like 'How to get past a bloody big dragon?'" Neville asked, which made Harry chuckle.

"No, I don't think so."

"I can help? After all, the task is tomorrow..."

"You know, it does make considerable difference to me, having someone with me on whom I can thoroughly rely," Harry said as he looked up from his book at Neville, "but at present, I don't need any help. I already know what I'm going to do."

"You do?" Neville asked in surprise, and Harry nodded.

"Uh-huh."

Silence...

"Care to share?"

"Not really, no," Harry said with a shake of his head. "I don't want to spoil the surprise."

Despite how calm Harry may have appeared, he barely slept that night, and when he awoke on Tuesday morning, he seriously considered for the first time ever just running away from Hogwarts. Criminals were one thing, dragons another, and Harry didn't know if he could get past his dragon while staying in style.

But as he looked around the Great Hall at breakfast, people all around him wishing him good luck, Harry knew that he could never do something like that. He loved the castle too much. Loved the staff, loved the students, loved the paintings... Of course, when everyone's attention was on him, he didn't love the students so much...

Time was behaving in a more peculiar fashion than ever, rushing past in great dollops, so that one moment he seemed to be sitting down in his first lesson, Arithmancy, and the next, walking into lunch... and then (where had the morning gone?), Professor McGonagall was hurrying over to him in the Great Hall. Lots of people were watching.

"Potter, the champions have to come down onto the grounds now... You have to get ready for your task."

"Alright," Harry said, standing up.

"Good luck, Harry," Hermione whispered. "You'll be fine!"

"Yeah, good luck, mate," Neville said, shaking his hand. "I like my friends rare, so stay away from the fire," he added in a whisper, which made Harry chuckle.

"I'll try."

He left the Great Hall with Professor McGonagall. She didn't seem herself. In fact, she looked even more anxious than Harry felt, though he managed to hide his anxiety. As she walked him down the stone steps and out into the cold November afternoon, she put her hand on his shoulder.

"Now, don't panic," she said, "just keep that cool head of yours... We've got wizards standing by to control the situation if it gets out of hand... The main thing is just to do your best, and nobody will think any the worse of you... Are you alright?"

"Of course," Harry said, nodding as he chewed on his pipe, which he'd taken out during the walk. "Whatever it is, I'm sure I can handle it."

"That's the spirit," McGonagall said, leading him toward the place where the dragons were, around the edge of the forest, but when they approached the clump of trees behind which the enclosure would be clearly visible, Harry saw that a tent had been erected, its entrance facing them, screening the dragons from view.

"You're to go in here with the other champions," Professor McGonagall said in a rather shaky voice, "and wait for your turn, Potter. Mr. Bagman is in there... he'll be telling you the... the procedure... Good luck."

"Thanks," Harry said as she left him at the entrance of the tent. Harry lit his pipe, and then went inside.

Fleur Delacour was sitting in a corner on a low wooden stool. She didn't look nearly as composed as usual, but rather pale and clammy. Viktor Krum looked even surlier than usual, which Harry supposed was his way of showing nerves.

"Harry! Good-o!" Bagman said happily, looking around at him. "Come in, come in, make yourself at home!"

Bagman looked somehow like a slightly overblown cartoon figure, standing amid all the pale-faced champions. He was wearing his old Wimbourne Wasps uniform, which looked a bit too tight on him.

"Well, now we're all here, time to fill you in!" Bagman said brightly as Harry took off his frock coat and sat down on a stool next to Fleur. When he noticed how she scrunched up her nose at the pipe smoke, he tapped it against his shoe and stepped on the glowing tobacco that fell out, before putting the pipe into his mouth again. "When the audience has assembled," Bagman continued, "I am going to be offering each of you this bag," he held up a small sack of purple silk and shook it at them, "from which you will each select a small model of the thing you are about to face. There are different... er... varieties, you see. And I have to tell you something, else, too... ah, yes... your task is to collect the golden egg!"

Harry glanced around. Fleur and Krum hadn't reacted at all. Perhaps they thought they might be sick if they opened their mouths? But they, at least, had volunteered for this...

And in no time at all, hundreds upon hundreds of pairs of feet could be heard passing the tent, their owners talking excitedly, laughing, joking... Harry closed his eyes and concentrated on the spell he was going to use. A soft laugh shook him out of his thoughts, and he opened his eyes to look at the nervous Fleur.

"I zought you were just anuzzer coward, but you must 'ave nerves of steel, Mr. Potter," she said, and Harry saw that her hands were trembling.

"I'm plenty nervous," Harry admitted. "I just don't let it hinder me. In battles and such, nervousness is yet another enemy one needs to deal with," he said, then thought about it and added, "Besides, I've faced a Cerberus. How bad can this be?"

"Zen ze books are true?" Fleur asked, and Harry saw Krum perking up slightly. "Ze ones your friend Mr. Longbottom 'as written about you?"

"They are very much true," Harry said with a nod. "Like I told Neville, there was a bit more romanticism than I would have liked, but yes, it is true."

"I have heard you are good detective," Krum spoke in a deep voice suddenly. "I vonder if you could help me?"

"With what?"

"I vill tell you after the first task," Krum said, and Harry nodded.

Just then, Bagman opened the neck of a purple silk sack.

"Ladies first," he said, offering it to Fleur.

She put a shaking hand inside the bag and drew out a tiny, perfect model of a dragon, a Welsh Green. It had the number two around its neck. And Harry knew, by the fact that Fleur showed no sign of surprise, but rather a determined resignation, that he had been right in thinking that Madame Maxime had told her what was coming.

The same held true for Krum. He pulled out the scarlet Chinese Fireball. It had a number one around its neck. He didn't even blink, just sat back down and stared at the ground.

Knowing what was left, Harry put his hand into the silk bag and pulled out the Hungarian Horntail, and the number three. It stretched its wings as he looked down at it, and bared its miniscule fangs.

"Well, there you are!" Bagman said. "You have each pulled out the dragon you will face, and the numbers refer to the order in which you are to take on the dragons, do you see? Now, I'm going to have to leave you in a moment, because I'm commentating. Mr. Krum, just go out into the enclosure when you hear a whistle, alright?"

With that, Bagman left the tent. Within moments, a whistle was blown, and Krum, his jaw tightening, walked out of the tent, leaving only Fleur and Harry.

Outside, Harry heard the crowd screamed, yelled and cheered, as Krum did whatever he was doing to get past the Chinese Fireball. Fleur had now taken to pacing back and forth, staring down at the ground.

"Very daring!" Bagman was yelling, and Harry heard the Chinese Fireball emit a horrible, roaring shriek, while the crowd drew its collective breath. That's some nerve he's showing, and... yes, he's got the egg!"

Applause shattered the wintery air like breaking glass. Krum had finished.

"One down, two to go!" Bagman yelled as the whistle blew again. "Miss Delacour, if you please!"

Fleur was trembling from head to foot. Harry felt more warmly toward her than he had done so far as she left the tent with her head held high and her hand clutching her wand. Now, Harry was left alone.

The same process started again... "Oh, I'm not sure that was wise!" he could hear Bagman shouting gleefully. "Oh... nearly! Careful now... good lord, I thought she had it then!"

Ten minutes later, Harry heard the crowd erupt into applause once more... Fleur must have been successful, too. A pause, while Fleur's marks were being shown... more clapping... then, for the third time, the whistle.

"And now, Mr. Potter!"

Harry stood up, dimly noting that his legs seemed to be made of marshmallow. He walked out through the entrance of the tent, the panic rising into a crescendo inside him. And now he was walking past the trees, through a gap in the enclosure fence.

He saw everything in front of him as though it was a very highly colored dream. There were hundreds and hundreds of faces staring down at him from stands that had been magicked there since he'd last stood on this spot. And there was the Horntail, at the other end of the enclosure, crouched low over her clutch of eggs, her wings half-furled, her evil, yellow eyes upon him, a monstrous, scaly, black lizard, thrashing her spiked tail, leaving yard-long gouge marks in the hard ground. The crowd was making a great deal of noise, bothersome as they were...

Idly, he remembered that he had forgotten his frock coat inside his tent, but shook his head and took out his wand, pointing it at one of the larger stones around him.

"Mauris vitae sapien!" he cried, and the stone shook. The very earth shook as other boulders started rolling toward it, attaching themselves to each other until they had formed a crude stone replica of the Hungarian Horntail. Harry didn't hear the crowd's reaction to it as he willed the stone creation to attack the Horntail, which roared when the stone monstrosity came charging toward it, tackling off its nest and biting down hard on the Horntail's neck with blunt stone teeth that shattered upon impact with the dragon's hard scales.

Harry, however, took this moment to charge forward to the eggs. As soon as he reached them, however, the Horntail managed to get out of the stone dragon's grip and swung her tail at him. Harry grabbed the golden egg amongst the others and rolled to the side, feeling the wind blow by his ear as he narrowly dodged the tail.

"Oh my!" came Bagman's voice as Harry rushed off with the golden egg, and the stone dragon crumbled. "He's got the egg! The fastest one to get the golden egg was the Hogwarts champion, Harry Potter, using a very impressive display of magic!"

Harry saw the dragon keepers rushing forward to subdue the Horntail, and, over the entrance to the enclosure, Professor McGonagall and Hagrid hurrying to meet him, both of them waving him toward them. He walked over, their smiles evident even from this distance. His heart felt lighter than it had been in weeks... He had got through it. He survived!

"That was excellent, Potter!" Professor McGonagall cried as he reached them, which from her was extravagant praise. He noticed that her hand shook as she put her hand on his shoulder. "Very good, Potter, very good."

"Yeh did it, Harry!" Hagrid said hoarsely. "Yeh did it! An' agains' the Horntail an' all, an' yeh know Charlie said that was the wors'-"

"Thanks, Hagrid," Harry said loudly, so that Hagrid wouldn't blunder on and reveal that he had shown Harry the dragons beforehand.

"Right then, Potter, the first aid tent, please," McGonagall said, shakily patting Harry on the back. Harry, though feeling fine, felt the need to comply, as McGonagall would no doubt want a professional opinion. She never did take Harry's word for it whenever he said he was fine...

He walked in the direction McGonagall pointed, and saw Madam Pomfrey standing at the mouth of a second tent, looking worried.

"Dragons!" she exclaimed in a disgusted tone, pulling Harry inside. The tent was divided into cubicles. He could see no one else inside, but by the ruffled appearance of the bed Harry was standing by, he wasn't the only one who had visited this tent.

Madam Pomfrey examined Harry, talking furiously all the while. "Last year dementors, this year dragons, what are they going to bring into this school next? You're very lucky," she told Harry after she finished with her examination. "You're fine. I don't need to give you anything."

"Thank Merlin," Harry muttered under his breath. Madam Pomfrey's potions always tasted horrible...

"Now, just sit quietly for a minute... sit! And then, you can go and get your score. Drink this." Madam Pomfrey held out an empty glass, which she tapped with her wand, and in an instant, it was filled with water. Only now did Harry realize that he was very, very, very thirsty, so he took it without objection, gulping it down.

Madam Pomfrey bustled out of the tent, grumpily muttering to herself.

Harry didn't want to sit still, though. He was too happy and full of adrenaline. Taking out his wand, he tapped the glass and watched it refill, then gulped it down.

He got to his feet, wanting to see what was going on outside, but before he'd reached the mouth of the ten, two people had come darting inside, Hermione, followed closely by Neville, who held both his and Harry's walking stick. He tossed Harry's walking stick to the detective, who caught it and leaned against it.

"Harry, you were brilliant!" Hermione cried squeakily. There were fingernail marks on her face where she had been clutching it in fear. "You were amazing! You really were! That dragon! You...! How did you do that?"

"Magic," Harry answered simply as he shook Neville's outstretched hand, feeling that it, too, was shaking slightly. "Doubted me, did you?"

"Oh, I never doubted or underestimated you," Neville said with a taunting calm. "I overestimated the dragon."

This caused all three to break into laughter.

"Come on," Neville said, gesturing for the entrance of the tent. "They're about to put up your score."

Picking up the golden egg, Harry ducked out of the tent, Neville and Hermione by his side.

"You were the best, you know, no competition," Neville said. "Fleur tried some kind of charm, probably trying to put her dragon into a trance. That kind of worked, as it went all sleepy, but then it snored, and this huge jet of flame shot out, setting her skirt on fire. Did us all a favor, really," he said, a slightly perverted glint in his eye.

"Neville!" Hermione exclaimed indignantly. "Anyway, Krum used the Conjunctivitis Curse, hit his dragon in the eyes. It's just too bad that it went on a rampage and trampled some of her eggs, so he got a point deduction for it."

Neville drew breath as he, Harry, and Hermione reached the edge of the enclosure. Now that the Horntail had been taken away, Harry could see where the five judges were sitting, right at the other end, in raised seats draped in gold.

"It marks out of ten from each one," Neville explained, and Harry, squinting up the field, saw the first judge, Madame Maxime, raise her wand in the air. What looked like a long silver ribbon shot out of it, twisting itself into a large figure nine.

"Not bad!" Neville said, clapping Harry on the shoulder as the crowd applauded.

Mr. Crouch came next. He also shot a number nine into the air. Next, Dumbledore. He put up a ten with twinkling eyes. The crowd was cheering louder than ever now.

Ludo Bagman... ten.

"Looking good so far, eh?" Harry asked with a chuckle, leaning against his walking stick.

And now, Karkaroff raised his wand. He paused for a moment, and then a number shot out of his wand, too: five.

"What?" Neville bellowed furiously. "Five? You lousy, biased piece of hippogriff dung! You gave Krum ten!"

"Don't worry about it," Harry said with a chuckle, patting Neville on the shoulder. "Where do I stand?"

"You're a few points ahead of Krum," Hermione said, and Harry nodded.

"That's good, good..." he said, nodding still.

"What now?" Neville asked.

"Well, what if they don't want me to get hurt, the imposter?" Harry asked, taking out his pipe and chewing on it. "What if they want me to win?"

"Perhaps it's a violin competition?" Neville asked, obviously doing his hardest not to cover his ears. "You're starting to sound almost like that egg..."

Harry sighed and put down his violin as he stared at the egg in his lap in the Gryffindor common room. There was supposed to be a clue inside it, a clue for where the next task was going to be held... but when he opened it, it gave off the most horrible noise, a loud and screechy wailing.

"No..." Harry muttered to himself, answering a question that had popped into his head, which he had already forgotten, having already answered it.

Neville just hummed and fished his watch out of his pocket, his eyes widening.

"Blimey! Transfiguration!"

"Potter! Longbottom! Will you pay attention?"

Professor McGonagall's irritated voice cracked like a whip through the Transfiguration lesson that the two had almost been late for. Due to scheduling problems, Hermione didn't have Transfiguration together with them.

"Now that Potter and Longbottom are finally paying attention," Professor McGonagall said once the two straightened up and looked at her, "I have something to say to you all.

"The Yule Ball is approaching, a traditional part of the Triwizard Tournament and an opportunity for us to socialize with our foreign guests. Now, the ball will be open only to fourth years and above, although you may invite a younger student if you wish...

Several of the girls in the class giggled rather loudly, looking back at Harry, who was lounging in his seat now, his hat tipped so that it almost covered his eyes.

"Dress robes will be worn," Professor McGonagall continued, staring sharply at Harry, "and the ball will start at eight o'clock on Christmas Day, finishing at midnight in the Great Hall. Now then..."

Professor McGonagall stared deliberately around the class.

"The Yule Ball is of course a chance for us all to... er... let our hair down... But that does NOT mean that we will be relaxing the standards of behavior we expect from Hogwarts students. I will be most seriously displeased if a Gryffindor student embarrasses the school in any way."

The bell rang, and there was the usual scuffle of activity as everyone packed their bags and swung them onto their shoulders.

Over the noise, Professor McGonagall called, "Potter, a word, if you please."

Blinking, Harry proceeded to the teacher's desk, an eyebrow raised. Professor McGonagall waited until the rest of the class had gone, and then said, "Potter, the champions and their partners open the Yule Ball, traditionally. I trust you know how to dance?"

"Waltz?" Harry asked, and Professor McGonagall. "Had you said square dance, then no, but I can waltz, tango, Cha-Cha, and a wide variety of dances."

"Good. Now, off with you, Potter."

"Yes, ma'am," Harry said, and with a mock salute, he left the room.

A week ago, Harry would have said finding a partner for a dance would be easy compared to taking on a Hungarian Horntail, but now that he had done the latter, and was facing the prospect of asking a girl to the ball, he thought he'd rather have another round with the dragon.

"And there we have Harry Potter's only weakness," Neville said with a smirk as they sat in the common room that evening. "Why don't you just ask Hermione?"

"She's going with someone else," Harry said, waving Neville off with the bow to his violin. "And by the way, have you asked out Hannah yet?"

Nevile visibly flinched at that. "How did you...? Never mind..." he muttered, then nodded. "Yes, I have, and if you must know, she said yes, so I'm all set for the ball. How about you?"

Harry just scoffed and stared into the fire.

"I don't even know how to ask, and besides, they are all moving in packs..."

"Just ask the girl who catches your eye if she wants to go to the ball with you."

"That works?" Harry asked, then looked back, spotting Parvati Patil and Lavender Brown in a couch across the room. "Hey, Parvati! Would you mind going to the Yule Ball with me?"

Parvati and Lavender immediately went into a fit of giggles. Harry waited for them to subside, casting a questioning glance at Neville.

"Yes, alright, then," Parvati said finally, blushing furiously.

Harry blinked. "Thank you," he said politely, then went back to staring at the open fire. "Well... that wasn't so bad..."

With the heavy load of homework that the seventh years had been given for the holidays, Harry was in the perfect mood to work when the term ended, and spent the week leading up to Christmas enjoying himself with his Arithmancy and Ancient Runes homework, also looking over Neville's homework and correcting any errors, which seemed to have grown fewer and fewer every year. Gryffindor Tower seemed hardly less crowded now than during term-time. It seemed to have shrunk slightly, too, as its inhabitants were being so much rowdier than before.

Snow was falling thickly upon the castle and its grounds now. The pale Beauxbatons carriage looked like a large, chilly, frosted pumpkin next to the iced gingerbread house that was Hagrid's cabin, while the Durmstrang ship's portholes were glazed with ice, the rigging white with frost. The house-elves down in the kitchen were outdoing themselves with a series of rich, warming stews and savory puddings, and only Fleur Delacour seemed to be able to find anything to complain about.

"It is too 'eavy, all zis 'Ogwarts food," they heard her saying grumpily after they left the Great Hall behind her one evening. "I will not fit into my dress robes!"

"Oooh, there's a tragedy," Hermione snapped as Fleur went out into the entrance hall. "She really thinks a lot of herself, that one, doesn't she?"

"I think she's beautiful, rich, smart, and magically powerful, so she has a right to be. It's the fact that she uses that right that bothers me," Harry said calmly, chewing on his pipe as he stared after her.

"Hermione, who are you going to the ball with?" Neville asked suddenly. He had asked her that all week, and Harry refused to tell, since Hermione had asked him not to, having deduced that Harry had deduced who she'd be going with.

"You're joking, Longbottom!" Malfoy said from behind them. "You're not telling me someone's asked that to the ball? Not the long-molared Mudblood?"

Harry and Neville both whipped around, and Harry scoffed. "I'm amazed you made it to seventh year, Malfoy. Although Hermione has large front teeth, although not too large," he added comfortingly to Hermione, having already seen that she had had Madam Pomfrey shrink them down slightly, "I think you mean long-incisored, not long-molared."

"Shut up, Potter, I wasn't talking to you!" Malfoy spat venomously. A smirk appeared on Harry's face, and his knuckles popped as he clenched his fists.

"You are now, Malfoy. And Crabbe and Goyle are still stuffing their faces like pigs."

Malfoy's already pale face went even paler as he looked around and noticed that his goons were, indeed, not at his sides. With a twitch, Malfoy brushed past them, Pansy Parkinson following like a loyal puppy.

Harry awoke very suddenly on Christmas Day. Wondering what had caused his abrupt return to consciousness, he opened his eyes and saw something with very large, round, green eyes staring back at him in the darkness, so close they were almost nose-to-nose.

"Dobby!" Harry yelled, scrambling away from the elf so fast he almost fell out of bed. "Don't do that!"

"Dobby is sorry, sir!" Dobby squeaked anxiously, jumping backward with his long fingers over his mouth. "Dobby is only wanting to wish Harry Potter 'Merry Christmas' and bring him a present, sir!"

"It's okay, Dobby," Harry said, taking long, deep breaths to calm his heart rate. "I was just startled. What are you doing here, anyway?"

"Dobby works here, sir!" Dobby announced proudly. Harry hummed, not knowing what chaos might come out of Dobby working at Hogwarts.

Harry pulled back the curtains around his four-poster bed. His yell had awoken Neville, Seamus, Dean, and Ron. All of them were peering through gaps in their own hangings, heavy-eyed and tousle-haired.

"Someone attacking you, Harry?" Seamus asked sleepily.

"No, it's just Dobby, a friend," Harry said. "Go back to sleep."

"Nah... presents!" Seamus said, spotting the large pile at the foot of his bed. Neville, Dean, and Ron decided that now they were awake, they might as well get down to some present-opening, too. Harry turned back to Dobby, who was now standing nervously next to Harry's bed, still looking worried that he had upset Harry. There was a Christmas bauble tied to the loop on top of a tea cozy on his head.

"Can Dobby give Harry Potter his present?" he squeaked tentatively.

"'Course you can," Harry said. "I'm sorry, Dobby, but I'm not so good at remembering presents, so I didn't get you one this year. Next year, though..."

"That's alright, Harry Potter," Dobby said, his eyes glittering with joy. "The promise of a present next year was the best thing Dobby has ever gotten, sir!"

Dobby now handed Harry a small package, which turned out to be... socks.

"Dobby is making them himself, sir!" the elf said happily. "He is buying the wool out of his wages, sir!"

The left sock was bright red and had a pattern of violin bows on it, while the right sock was green with a pattern of violins.

"They're... they're really... well, thanks, Dobby," Harry said, patting the elf on the shoulder, before pulling them on, which caused Dobby's eyes to leak with happiness.

"Dobby must go now, sir, we is already making Christmas dinner in the kitchens!" Dobby said, and he hurried out of the dormitory, waving good-bye to Neville and the others as he passed.

Harry's other presents were just as, if not more so, satisfactory than Dobby's odd socks. Hermione had given him a set of books on Defense Against the Dark Arts, Neville had given him a new fedora, almost identical to his old one, only darker in color, this one almost pitch black. Sirius had given him a handy penknife with attachments to unlock any lock and undo any knot, and Hagrid gave him a vast box of chocolates of every kind.

Harry and Neville met up with Hermione in the common room, and they went down to breakfast together. They spent most of the morning in Gryffindor Tower, where everyone was enjoying their presents, then returned to the Great Hall for a magnificent lunch, which included at least a hundred turkeys and Christmas puddings, and large piles of Cribbage's Wizarding Crackers.

They went out onto the grounds in the afternoon. The snow was untouched except for the deep channels made by the Durmstrang and Beauxbatons students on their way up to the castle. Hermione chose to watch Harry and Neville have a snowball fight, rather than join in, and at five o'clock said she was going back upstairs to get ready for the ball.

"What, you need three hours?" Neville asked as Hermione waved and disappeared up the stone steps into the castle. "Why would she need three hours?"

"Don't ask me. It's an unsolvable mystery..."

There was no Christmas tea today, as the ball included a feast, so at seven o'clock, when it had become hard to aim properly, the two abandoned their snowball fight, in which Seamus, Dean, and Ron had joined, and trooped back to the common room. The Fat Lady was sitting in her frame with her friend Violet from downstairs, both of them extremely tipsy, empty boxes of chocolate liqueurs littering the bottom of her picture.

"Lairy fights, that's the one!" she giggled when they gave the password, and she swung forward to let them inside.

Harry, Neville, Seamus, Dean, and Ron changed into their dress robes in their dormitory, although Harry wore no robes. He wore leather shoes, Dobby's socks, black trousers, a white, open-collar shirt with a gray silk cravat under it, a white, patterned waistcoat, and a black tailcoat with silk lapels. Neville dressed in similar fashion, only with a red waistcoat and a black bowtie.

Ron Weasley was wearing a horrible set of red dress robes with lots of frills and a cravat, using a Severing Charm on the ruff and cuffs, something that was extremely dangerous, but which he didn't seem to understand.

"I still can't work out how you two got the best-looking girls in the year," Dean muttered, and Harry shrugged as they set off downstairs.

"I asked."

The common room looked strange, full of people wearing different colors instead of the usual mass of black. Parvati was waiting for Harry at the foot of the stairs. She looked very pretty indeed, in robes of shocking pink, with her long dark plait braided with gold, and gold bracelets glimmering at her wrists.

"You look nice," Harry said awkwardly.

"Thanks," she said. "You too. Shall we go then?"

"Okay," Harry said, wishing he could just stay in the common room.

The entrance hall was packed with students too, all milling around waiting for eight o'clock, when the doors to the Great Hall would be thrown open. Those people who were meeting partners from different Houses were edging through the crowd trying to find one another. Neville found Hannah Abbott, and led her over to Harry and Parvati.

"Hi," Hannah said brightly, looking just as pretty as Parvati in robes of flowing blood red.

"Seen Hermione yet?" Neville asked, and Harry just settled for smiling mysteriously at him as Fleur passed them, looking stunning in robes of silver-gray satin, and accompanied by the Ravenclaw Quidditch captain, whose name Harry had forgotten. Neville, looking back to Harry, asked, "Where is Hermione?"

Harry didn't answer.

A group of Slytherins came up the steps from their dungeon common room. Malfoy was in front. He was wearing dress robes of black velvet with a high collar, which in Harry's opinion made him look like a vicar. Pansy Parkinson in very frilly robes of pale pink was clutching Malfoy's arm. Crabbe and Goyle were both wearing green; they resembled moss-colored boulders, and neither of them, Harry was pleased to see, had managed to find a partner. The oak front doors opened, and everyone turned to look as the Durmstrang students entered with Professor Karkaroff. Krum was at the front of the party, accompanied by a pretty girl in blue robes Harry smirked at seeing. Over their heads he saw that an area of lawn right in front of the castle had been transformed into a sort of grotto full of fairy lights, meaning hundreds of actual living fairies were sitting in the rosebushes that had been conjured there, and fluttering over the statues of what seemed to be Father Christmas and his reindeer.

Then Professor McGonagall's voice called, "Champions over here, please!"

Parvati readjusted her bangles, beaming. She and Harry said "See you in a minute" to Neville and Hannah and walked forward, the chattering crowd parting to let them through. Professor McGonagall, who was wearing dress robes of red tartan and had arranged a rather ugly wreath of thistles around the brim of her hat, told them to wait on one side of the doors while everyone else went inside. They were to enter the Great Hall in procession when the rest of the students had sat down. Fleur Delacour and the Quidditch Captain, Chambers, if Harry's memory served him, stationed themselves nearest the doors. Chambers looked so stunned by his good fortune in having Fleur for a partner that he could hardly take his eyes off her. Harry's eyes fell on the girl next to Krum, Hermione.

She didn't look like Hermione at all, however. She had done something with her hair. It was no longer bushy but sleek and shiny, and twisted up into an elegant knot at the back of her head. She was wearing robes made of a floaty, periwinkle-blue material, and she was holding herself differently, somehow, or maybe it was merely the absence of the twenty or so books she usually had slung over her back. She was also smiling, rather nervously, it was true, but the reduction in the size of her front teeth was more noticeable than ever.

"Hi, Harry!" she said. "Hi, Parvati!"

Parvati was gazing at Hermione in unflattering disbelief. She wasn't the only one either. When the doors to the Great Hall opened, Krum's fan club from the library stalked past, throwing Hermione looks of deepest loathing. Pansy Parkinson gaped at her as she walked by with Malfoy, and even he didn't seem to be able to find an insult to throw at her. Once everyone else was settled in the Hall, Professor McGonagall told the champions and their partners to get in line in pairs and to follow her. They did so, and everyone in the Great Hall applauded as they entered and started walking up toward a large round table at the top of the Hall, where the judges were sitting.

The walls of the Hall had all been covered in sparkling silver frost, with hundreds of garlands of mistletoe and ivy crossing the starry black ceiling. The House tables had vanished. Instead, there were about a hundred smaller, lantern-lit ones, each seating about a dozen people.

Parvati seemed to be enjoying herself, beaming around at everybody, steering Harry so forcefully that he felt as though he were a show dog she was putting through its paces. He caught sight of Neville and Hannah as he neared the top table. Neville was watching Hermione with disbelief in her eyes, and so did Hannah.

Dumbledore smiled happily as the champions approached the top table, but Karkaroff wore an expression of suspicion and something akin to loathing as he watched Krum and Hermione draw nearer. Ludo Bagman, tonight in robes of bright purple with large yellow stars, was clapping as enthusiastically as any of the students, and Madame Maxime, who had changed her usual uniform of black satin for a flowing gown of lavender silk, was applauding them politely. But Mr. Crouch, Harry suddenly realized, was not there. The fifth seat at the table was occupied by Percy Weasley.

There the trio sat in the Great Hall, all three of them spent from dancing. Hannah had apparently gone to talk to Susan Bones, her House mate, and Hermione had just sat down, a bit pink in the face.

"It's hot, isn't it?" she asked, fanning herself with her hand. "Viktor's just gone to get some drinks."

"What I want to know is why none of you ever told me you were going to the ball with Krum," Neville muttered, crossing his arms. "I don't like being left out of the loop."

"If it's any consolation to you, she didn't tell me, either," Harry said, patting Neville on the shoulder. "I merely deduced it."

"Herm-own-ninny," a voice said. Krum had just arrived at their table, clutching two butterbeers.

"Oh, Viktor," Hermione said, smiling brightly as she took a butterbeer from him. "I'd like you to meet my friends, Harry Potter, and Neville Longbottom."

"We've met," Harry said with a smile, shaking Krum's hand, Neville doing the same.

"Nice to meet you," Neville said, also smiling.

"Likevise," Krum said, nodding. "By the vay, I never got to tell you about my problem."

"Well, better late than never," Harry said. Krum glanced at Hermione and Neville.

"It vould be better in private."

"Of course," Harry said as he stood up, and together they walked some distance away from the table. "What can I help you with?"

"I vant to know," Krum said, looking uncertain, "vot is there between you and Herm-own-ninny?"

Harry, who had been expecting a case to solve, or something, was disappointed.

"Nothing. We're friends. She's not my girlfriend, and she never has been. It's just that Skeeter woman making things up."

"Herm-own-ninny talks about you very often," Krum said, looking suspiciously at Harry.

"Yeah," Harry said, "because we're friends."

Krum was watching Harry, his expression a mix of suspicion, apologetic, and his usual surly expression.

"You haff never... you haff not...?"

"No," Harry said very firmly.

"Oh. Vell then, I don't haff problem."


	17. Chapter 17

Everybody got up late on Boxing Day. The Gryffindor common room was much quieter than it had been lately, many yawns punctuating the lazy conversations. Hermione's hair was bushy again. She confessed to Harry that she had used liberal amounts of Sleekeazy's Hair Potion on it for the ball, "but it's way too much bother to do every day," she said matter-of-factly, scratching a purring Crookshanks behind the ears.

Neville and Harry had wasted no time in telling Hermione about the conversation they had overheard between Madame Maxime and Hagrid, but Hermione didn't seem to find the news that Hagrid was a half-giant nearly as shocking as Neville did.

"Well, I thought he must be," she said, shrugging. "I knew he couldn't be pure giant, because they're about twenty feet tall. But honestly, all this hysteria about giants. They can't all be horrible... It's the same sort of prejudice that people have toward werewolves... It's just bigotry, isn't it?"

"Well said, Hermione. Well said," Harry said approvingly.

"Although most of them are actually horrible," Neville said. "It's in their nature. They have a different culture than ours, a survival of the fittest culture."

"Also very true," Harry said with a nod. "You both make good points, but I think we can all agree that in Hagrid's case, the human in him is bigger than the giant could ever be."

"Hear, hear," Neville said, nodding.

Strangely enough, February the twenty-fourth seemed a lot closer from this side of Christmas, and he still hadn't done anything about his golden egg. He therefore started taking the egg out of his trunk every time he went up to the dormitory, opening it and listening intently, hoping that this time it would make some sense. He strained to think what the sound reminded him of, apart from the musical saws that played in the orchestra at Sir Nicholas' Deathday Party...

Wait a minute!

Harry perked up. Music! It was music! What music sounded like that? His mind worked overtime recalling all the texts he had read so far. The list of creatures that made music like that was long, and then he narrowed it down to the creatures that weren't too dangerous, and then removed those that the Ministry wouldn't possibly import. That left two possibles, and the centaurs, whose music was only beautiful during a full moon, which didn't occur on February the twenty-fourth, was too proud a race to agree to being part of the Triwizard Tournament, leaving just one... Merfolk...

"Hermione!" Harry exclaimed as he came rushing down into the common room, making Hermione and Neville, both sitting in front of the fire in their usual seats, jump in surprise.

"What?" Hermione asked, clutching at her chest, trying to calm her heart.

"What is the password to the prefects' bathroom?"

"Why?"

"My egg and I are taking a bath."

"Alright, so they've taken the thing you'll miss the most, you have an hour to look for it, and it's in the lake?" Neville recounted that night as they sat in the common room, alone.

"That's right."

"Well, if it's underwater you're going, I recommend Gillyweed."

Harry blinked, looking at his friend.

"What?"

"Gillyweed," Neville repeated. "It's a magical plant native to the Mediterranean Sea. When it is eaten by a witch or wizard, one grows gills and webbing between the fingers and toes. There is, of course, some debate among Herbologists as to the duration of the effects of Gillyweed on fresh water versus salt water, but the effects of Gillyweed in fresh water is said to last about an hour."

Harry straightened up in his chair.

"You didn't, perchance, get this information from the book our dear imposter gave you?"

Neville's eyes widened.

"So I did."

The next day, Harry was very surprised when he saw Rita Skeeter's latest article.

DUMBLEDORE'S GIANT MISTAKE

Albus Dumbledore, eccentric Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, has never been afraid to make controversial staff appointments, writes

Rita Skeeter, Special Correspondent.

In September of this year, he hired Alastor 'Mad-Eye' Moody, the notoriously jinx-happy ex-Auror, to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts, a decision that caused many raised eyebrows at the Ministry of Magic, given Moody's well-known habit of attacking anybody who makes a sudden movement in his presence.

Mad-Eye Moody, however, looks responsible and kindly when set beside the part-human Dumbledore employs to teach Care of Magical Creatures. Rubeus Hagrid, who admits to being expelled from Hogwarts in his third year, has enjoyed the position of gamekeeper at the school ever since a job secured for him by Dumbledore. Last year, however, Hagrid used his mysterious influence over the headmaster to secure the additional post of Care of Magical Creatures teacher, over the heads of many better-qualified candidates.

An alarmingly large and ferocious-looking man, Hagrid has been using his newfound authority to terrify the students in his care with a succession of horrific creatures. While Dumbledore turns a blind eye, Hagrid has maimed several pupils during a series of lessons that many admit to being 'very frightening.' "My friend Vincent Crabbe got a bad bite off a flobberworm," says Draco Malfoy, a seventh-year student. "We all hate Hagrid, but we're just too scared to say anything."

Hagrid has no intention of ceasing his campaign of intimidation, however. In conversation with a Daily Prophet reporter last month, he admitted breeding creatures he has dubbed 'Blast-Ended Skrewts,' highly dangerous crosses between manti-cores and fire-crabs. The creation of new breeds of magical creature is, of course, an activity usually closely observed by the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. Hagrid, however, considers himself to be above such petty restrictions.

"I was just having some fun," he says, before hastily changing the subject.

As if this were not enough, the Daily Prophet has now unearthed evidence that Hagrid is not, as he has always pretended, a pure-blood wizard. He is not, in fact, even pure human. His mother, we can exclusively reveal, is none other than the giantess Fridwulfa, whose whereabouts are currently unknown. Bloodthirsty, and brutal, the giants brought themselves to the point of extinction by warring amongst themselves during the last century. The handful that remained joined the ranks of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, and were responsible for some of the worst mass Muggle killings of his reign of terror.

While many of the giants who served He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named were killed by Aurors working against the Dark Side, Fridwulfa was not among them. It is possible she escaped to one of the giant communities still existing in foreign mountain ranges. If his antics during Care of Magical Creatures lessons are any guide, however, Fridwulfa's son appears to have inherited her brutal nature.

In a bizarre twist, Hagrid is reputed to have developed a close friendship with the boy who brought around You-Know-Who's fall from power, thereby driving Hagrid's own mother, like the rest of You-Know-Who's supporters, into hiding. Perhaps Harry Potter is unaware of the unpleasant truth about his large friend, but Albus Dumbledore surely has a duty to ensure that Harry Potter, along with his fellow students, is warned about the dangers of associating with part-giants.

Harry finished reading the article out loud to Neville at the breakfast table. Neville's mouth was hanging open.

"How did she find out?" he whispered.

"Do you suppose she was there?" Harry suggested. "When he told Maxime, I mean?"

"It's entirely possible..." Neville mumbled, nodding. "Where do you think she was?"

"The question isn't where she was, but how she got in," Harry said, chewing on his pipe. "She has been banned from this school, after all..."

"Monsieur Potter?"

Harry blinked from his position on a rock on the sloping lawns, sitting crosslegged and looking over the lake, his warm winter coat wrapped around him. Looking back, he saw a cold and shivering Beauxbatons student.

"Yes?" he asked, raising an eyebrow as he tapped his pipe against the stone, unloading it and stepping on the glowing tobacco.

"I was wondering if you could 'elp me," the girl said with a pitiful look on her face. "My favorite gold ring is missing, and I zink someone 'as stolen it."

"I charge a Sickle a day," Harry said, immediately rising to his feet and hopping off the rock. "And I will need to see the place where it was stolen from."

"Certainly. My name is Claire."

"Nice to meet you, Claire, I'd introduce myself, but I'm sure you already know me," Harry said as Claire led him down the snowy lawns to the Beauxbatons carriage, opening the door and letting him inside. The inside was obviously enlarged, as big as a house though it was, it couldn't possibly hold two floors of rooms, six doors on each side on each floor, and each room, judging by the distance between the doors, was very large.

"Zis is my room," Claire said, gesturing for the door to Harry's immediate right, closest to the door. Harry nodded and stepped inside.

As he thought, the room was large, about as large as Dudley's room in Privet Drive. It was furnished rather beautifully with a golden four-posted bed with red silk sheets, a large wardrobe, a beautifully hand-carved desk, a full-body mirror, drawers on each side of the bed, candles...

Harry hummed as he took five steps inside the room and looked around.

"Have you had the ring for a long time?"

"Oui," Claire answered, nodding as he looked back at her. "I 'ave 'ad it for years."

"You always wear it?"

"Oui."

Harry hummed again, taking another look around the room. Slowly, he sat down and closed his eyes, his head slowly dropping, his chin on his chest.

"Monsieur Potter?" Claire asked, and Harry raised a finger for silence.

"Has anyone from the other schools entered this room?"

"Non, no one," Claire said. "But I found wet footprints over zere," she said, pointing to the window, which was facing the lawns. Harry chuckled and stood up, moving over to the window and taking out his magic lens, permitting him to see stains that had long since been dried or wiped off.

"Hum!" he said quite loudly. "That'll be a Sickle, Madame."

"Pardon?"

"A Sickle, my job is done, you will have your ring by tonight," Harry said simply. "Of course, I cannot say for certain who the culprit is without talking to them first, but you will have it by tonight, I promise."

Looking slightly confused, Claire handed Harry a Sickle, and he left, looking quite bored.

On his way up to the lawns, he met exactly the person he was going up to look for, Fleur Delacour.

"Ah, Madame Delacour, that was a very nice theft," he told her, stopping her. Fleur blink.

"Excuse me? Did you just accuse me of stealing somzzing?"

"I believe I did," Harry said. "From your schoolmate Claire, you stole a gold ring on the night of the Yule Ball. Of course, I have nothing to link you directly to the crime, but then again I've only done an elementary search of the crime scene."

He noticed how Fleur's body tensed up ever so slightly, and quick as a flash, he lashed out and grabbed her wrist, a smirk appearing on his face.

"Your pulse is increasing," he said happily. "Now, if that ring were to find its way back into Claire's room by tonight, I won't be doing any further investigation, but if you don't return it, I will find evidence to bring you down."

To his surprise, Fleur gave a soft laugh.

"You are every bit ze detective you 'ave been made out to be," she said with a smile. "But don't worry. Soon, I will give you a case even you cannot solve."

"A challenge?" Harry asked, raising an eyebrow.

"A promise," Fleur said.

Harry smiled.

"I'm looking forward to it."

"What did you bring her for?" Neville asked, gesturing for the scared and confused miniature version of Fleur.

"Fleur didn't turn up, I couldn't just leave her," Harry panted, glaring at Neville. "In retrospect, I realize that they wouldn't just let people die. I panicked, alright?"

"Hah!" Neville laughed as the two swam toward the bank where the judges were waiting, twenty merpeople accompanying them like a guard of honor, singing their horrible screechy songs. "Finally, the great Harry Potter lost his cool!"

Harry could see Madam Pomfrey fussing over Hermione and Krum, all of whom were wrapped in thick blankets.

Dumbledore and Ludo Bagman stood beaming at Harry and Neville from the bank as they swam nearer. Meanwhile, Madame Maxime was trying to restrain Fleur, who was quite hysterical, fighting tooth and nail to return to the water.

"Gabrielle! Gabrielle! Is she alive? Is she 'urt?"

"She's fine!" Harry tried to tell her, but he was so exhausted he could hardly talk, let alone shout.

Dumbledore and Bagman pulled Harry and Neville upright when they reached the bank, and Fleur, breaking free from Madame Maxime, rushed over and hugged her sister.

"It was ze grindylows... zey attacked me... oh, Gabrielle, I zought... I zought..."

"Come here, you," Madam Pomfrey said. She seized Harry and pulled him over to Hermione and Krum, wrapped him so tightly in a blanket that he felt as if he were in a straitjacket, and forced a measure of very hot potion down his throat. Steam gushed out of his ears.

"Harry, well done!" Hermione cried. "You did it, you found out how all by yourself!"

"Actually," Harry said quietly, still panting slightly, for Karkaroff was sitting within earshot, "Neville gave me the tip about using Gillyweed."

"You haff a water beetle in your hair, Herm-own-ninny," Krum said. Harry had the impression that Krum was drawing her attention back onto himself, perhaps to remind her that he had just rescued her from the lake, but Hermione brushed away the beetle impatiently and said, "You're well outside the time limit, though, Harry... Did it take you ages to find us?"

"No... I found you okay..."

Harry's feeling of stupidity, something he hadn't felt for a long time, was growing. Why hadn't he just grabbed Neville and gone? He would have been first back... Krum hadn't wasted time worrying about anyone else. He hadn't taken the mersong seriously...

Dumbledore was crouching at the water's edge, deep in conversation with what seemed to be the chief merperson, a particularly wild and ferocious-looking female. He was making the same sort of screechy noises that the merpeople made when they were above water. Clearly, Dumbledore could speak Mermish. Finally, he straightened up, turned to his fellow judges, and said, "A conference before we give the marks, I think."

The judges went into a huddle as a blanket-wrapped, steamy-eared Neville was sat down at Harry's side.

"Well," he said, nodding to himself, "I'd say you're going to get the highest score."

Harry hummed.

"What, for sheer stupidity?"

"I was thinking more along the lines of being willing to lose just to see that all the hostages were returned safely," Neville said, laughing at Harry's expression, which Harry guessed must have looked amusing to Neville...

Then, Fleur and her sister arrived with Madam Pomfrey. Fleur had many cuts on her face and arms and her robes were torn, but she didn't seem to care, nor would she allow Madam Pomfrey to clean them.

"Look after Gabrielle," she told her, and then she turned to Harry. "You saved 'er," she said breathlessly. "Even though she was not your 'ostage."

"Yes, well..." Harry trailed off, looking away from Fleur, then felt Neville slap him hard on the back.

"Of course! He couldn't very well leave her there, could he? That's not how Harry works."

Fleur bent down, kissed Harry twice on each cheek (he felt his face burn and wouldn't have been surprised if steam was coming out of his ears again), then said to Neville, "And you too... you 'elped."

"I just swam," Neville said, raising his hands in defense. "Harry did the saving."

Just then, Bagman's magically magnified voice boomed out beside them, making them all jump, and causing the crowd in the stands to go very quiet.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we have reached our decision. Merchieftainess Murcus has told us exactly what happened at the bottom of the lake, and we have therefore decided to award marks out of fifty for each of the champions, as follows...

"Fleur Delacour, though she demonstrated excellent use of the Bubble-Head Charm, was attacked by grindylows as she approached her goal, and failed to retrieve her hostage. We award her twenty-five points."

Applause from the stands.

"I deserved zero," Fleur said throatily, shaking her magnificent head.

"Viktor Krum used an incomplete form of Transfiguration, and was first to return with his hostage. We award him forty points."

Karkaroff clapped particularly hard, looking very superior.

"Harry Potter used Gillyweed to great success," Bagman continued. "He returned last, and well outside the time limit of an hour. However, the Merchieftainess informs us that Mr. Potter was first to reach the hostages, and that the delay in his return was due to his determination to return all hostages to safety, not merely his own."

Neville and Hermione both gave Harry half-exasperated, half-commiserating looks.

"Most of the judges," and here, Bagman gave Karkaroff a very nasty look, "feel that this shows moral fiber and merits full marks. However... Mr. Potter's score is forty-five points."

Harry's stomach leapt. He was in first place! Hermione, caught by surprise, while Neville looked smug, then laughed as they both started applauding hard with the rest of the crowd.

"What did I tell you?" Neville asked, thumping Harry on the back again. "You weren't being thick, just showing moral fiber!"

Fleur was clapping very hard, too, but Krum didn't look happy at all. He attempted to engage Hermione in conversation again, but she was too busy cheering Harry to listen.

"The third and final task will take place at dusk on the twenty-fourth of June," Bagman continued. "The champions will be notified of what is coming precisely one month beforehand. Thank you all for your support of the champions."

"It's close, Neville."

Harry and Neville sat in the Great Hall. Harry was glancing up at the Head Table now and then, at the imposter Moody.

"He is about to make his move," Harry continued, to which Neville raised an eyebrow.

"What makes you say that?"

"Please note, Neville, how his normal eye moves just as rapidly as the fake one. Note the increased wringing of his hands, the tapping of his foot, the barely concealed smile on his face... Oh yes, Neville, whatever he is planning will happen during the third task, I'm sure."

"Are you going to let it happen?" Neville asked, and Harry shook his head.

"Of course not. We will be taking him down." Harry looked around and leaned closer to Neville. "Today."

"We?" Neville asked with a gulp. He obviously wasn't too sure about this.

"You don't want to?"

Neville sighed. "Of course I do."

"Very well, then," Harry said, nodding. "When he gets up to leave, I shall paralyze his vocal cords. You will give him a solid strike to the kidney, then disarm him. I shall then proceed to break his nose and knock him out with a punch to the temple."

"If you say so," Neville said with a sigh.

As they sat in the far end of the Gryffindor table, they waited until they saw Moody rise from his seat and head off toward the doors. Harry and Neville rose from their seats as well, and made their way over to Moody.

"Professor, I think I've been cursed," Harry said lowly as they stopped Moody. Moody's eye narrowed.

"What are you talking about, Potter?"

"Look at my hand," Harry said and held up his left hand. Moody's fake eye was locked on Neville's, while his normal one stared into the palm of Harry's hand.

Like a flash, Harry's hand shot up, choke slamming Moody in the throat. Neville immediately moved in as the entire hall went silent, throwing a powerful hook that hit the man in his left kidney, while with his left hand he reached into Moody's coat and pulled out his wand. As Moody doubled over from the strike, his nose met with Harry's knee, throwing his head back. Then, Harry threw a left hook that connected with Moody's temple, knocking him unconscious.

Without a second's pause, Harry pulled out his wand and pointed it at Moody.

"Stupefy!"

A bright red jet of light slammed into Moody, making sure he stayed unconscious until the time came to wake him up.

"It's just about on the hour," Harry said, taking Neville's walking stick and flipping the imposter over onto his back.

The entire hall stared in silent shock as Harry and Neville watched the impostor's unmoving form. Then, before their eyes, the face of the man on the floor began to change. The scars were disappearing, the skin was becoming smooth. The mangled nose became whole and started to shrink. The long mane of grizzled gray hair was withdrawing into the scalp and turning the color of straw. Suddenly, with a loud clunk, the wooden leg fell away as a normal leg regrew in its place. The next moment, the magical eyeball had popped out of the man's face as a real eye replaced it. It rolled away across the floor and continued to swivel in every direction. Harry saw a man lying before him, pale-skinned, slightly freckled, with a mop of fair hair.

"Bartemius Crouch," Harry said, kneeling next to the man, having read many case files in his early days at Hogwarts, "junior..."

"The blood of an enemy... Well, that could be anyone. I suspect he wanted my blood because of my mother's protection," Harry said as he watched the Aurors carrying a soulless Bartemius Crouch Jr. away from the castle.

"Good riddance," Neville said and spat on the ground in contempt. "One of my parents' attackers has gotten what he deserved."

Harry patted Neville on the shoulder. "You know, I wonder what name my map would have shown when it came to him..."

"What happened to your map, by the way?" Neville asked as the two turned and walked back into the entrance hall, through the crowd of students. Harry shrugged.

"I let Dumbledore borrow it. He had more use for it than I do. Especially now that Crouch is out of the way."

"Neville!"

Harry looked up sharply at the voice, and saw Neville heading over to meet Hannah Abbott, who greeted Neville with a kiss. He hummed as he approached them.

"So, I see you have actually managed to keep a secret from me, Neville," Harry said with a bright smile. "I see you two have been together long before the Yule Ball."

"You are as good as Neville says you are," Hannah said, holding hands with Neville. "How could you tell?"

"Well, the kiss of greeting was a bit too well-practiced," Harry said, winking at Neville. "Not to mention, you are holding hands, which are subconsciously having their own little thumb war, suggesting that you two have done this for a long time, in the Astronomy Tower, if I'm not mistaken?"

"Don't show him any bare skin save for your neck, head and hands, Hannah," Neville muttered, "or he'll be able to tell you how you were born..."

Hannah laughed.

"What's so funny?" came Hermione's voice as she approached Harry from behind.

"Have you been down to the kitchens again?" Harry asked without looking back at her. "As for what's so funny, Neville cracked a little joke regarding my powers of deduction. Not funny, in my opinion."

The time passed in regular normality, something that left Harry feeling horrible. The only positive he had to look forward to was the intricate Arithmancy and Advanced Arithmancy homework that Professor Vector assigned. The calculations, the complex numerical problems were like candy for Harry's brain. As he had no clue to work on regarding the third task, this was all he had to look forward to. According to Holmes, a seven percent solution of cocaine was transcendentally stimulating and clarifying to the mind, but Harry didn't wish to try it. It was, as Watson said, a pathological and morbid process which involved increased tissue-change and may leave a permanent weakness. Unlike Holmes, Harry didn't want to risk it.

Finally, in the last week of May, something somewhat interesting happened. Professor McGonagall held him back in Transfiguration.

"You are to go down to the Quidditch field tonight at nine o'clock, Potter," she told him. "Mr. Bagman will be there to tell the champions about the third task."

So, at half past eight that night, Harry left Neville and Hermione in Gryffindor Tower and went downstairs. He headed down the stone steps out of the entrance hall, out into the cloudy nights.

He walked down the dark lawn to the Quidditch stadium, turned through a gap in the stands, and walked out onto the field, stopping dead.

The Quidditch field was no longer smooth and flat. It looked as though somebody had been building long, low walls all over it that twisted and crisscrossed in every direction.

"Hedges..." Harry muttered to himself, bending to examine the nearest one.

"Hello there!" a cheery voice called.

Bagman was standing in the middle of the field with Krum and Fleur. Harry made his way toward them, climbing over the hedges. Fleur beamed at Harry as he came nearer. Her attitude toward him had changed completely since he had saved her sister from the lake.

"Well, what d'you think?" Bagman asked happily as Harry climbed over the last hedge. "Growing nicely, aren't they? Give them a month and Hagrid'll have them twenty feet high. Now, I imagine you can guess what we're making here?"

No one spoke for a moment. Then, both Harry and Krum said, "Maze," at the same time.

"That's right!" Bagman said happily. "A maze! The third task's really very straightforward. The Triwizard Cup will be placed in the center of the maze. The first champion to touch it will receive full marks."

"We simply 'ave to get zrough ze maze?" Fleur asked.

"There will be obstacles," Bagman said happily, bouncing on the balls of his feet. "Hagrid is providing a number of creatures... then there will be spells that must be broken... all that sort of thing, you know. Now, the champion who is leading on points, Mr. Potter, will get a head start into the maze." Bagman grinned at Harry. "Then Mr. Krum will enter... and finally, Miss Delacour. But you'll all be in with a fighting chance, depending how well you get past the obstacles. Should be fun, eh?"

Harry, who knew only too well the kind of creatures that Hagrid was likely to provide for an event like this, thought it was likely to be very dangerous, but at the prospect of seeing various spells that needed to be broken, he nodded excitedly, while the others nodded politely.

"Very well... if you haven't got any questions, we'll go back up to the castle, shall we, it's a bit chilly..."

Bagman hurried alongside Harry as they began to wind their way out of the growing maze. Harry had the feeling that Bagman was going to start offering to help him, but just then, Fleur tapped Harry on the shoulder.

"Could I 'ave a word wiz you?"

"Yeah, alright," Harry said, slightly surprised.

"Will you walk wiz me?"

Harry nodded, and Bagman looked slightly perturbed.

"I'll wait for you, Harry, shall I?"

"No, it's okay, Mr. Bagman," Harry said, suppressing a smile, "I think I can find the castle on my own, thanks."

Harry and Fleur left the stadium together, but Fleur walked passed Hagrid's cabin and the illuminated Beauxbatons carriage, toward the forest.

"Why are we going here?" Harry asked, raising an eyebrow.

"I don't want anyone else to 'ear us," Fleur said.

When at last they had reached a quiet stretch of ground a short way from the Beauxbatons horses' paddock, Fleur stopped in the shade of the trees and turned to face Harry.

"You are a good man, 'Arry," she said, to which Harry just blinked.

"What?" he asked. "That's all?"

"Non, non, silly," Fleur said, laughing. "Zere's more. I like you," she said, making Harry's eyes widen. "I would like to get to know you better, and I was wondering if you would like to go to zis... 'Ogsmeade wiz me tomorrow?"

Harry gaped. "You're asking me out?" he asked, shocked. He never would've thought that someone like Fleur would ask someone like him out.

Fleur blushed.

"I don't know why, but I feel a great attraction to you," she said. After a few seconds of shocked silence, Fleur started to fidget slightly. "Well?"

This knocked Harry out of his shock.

"What? Oh, sure, I'd love to." To his amazement, Fleur actually breathed a sigh of relief.

"Zank God. I 'ave never been ze one to ask someone out on a date before. I was worried you would say no."

"Why would anyone say no to you?" Harry asked. "You're beautiful, you come from an upper class family, you have a lot of money, although you prefer to earn it for yourself. I would comment on your stuck-up personality, but I would be a pot calling a kettle black if I did."

"Stuck-up?" Fleur asked, affronted. "I am not stuck-up. I 'ave standards."

"Forgive me," Harry said, giving a small bow. "When I analyze, I view things as abstract problems, forgetting how personal or insulting I may be. It's a bit of a flaw of mine that I hope you can understand."

Fleur raised her head and tossed her hair. "Well, at least you are polite."

"And I sense a bit of insecurity in you," Harry said, smiling.

"I 'ave 'eard of your deductive powers," Fleur said, tilting her head to the side. "What can you tell me about myself?"

"Like I said, you're from an upper class family, a rich one that you love very much, but you want to earn money yourself, to show that you're not just a pretty face, but sometimes, you are afraid that you might fail, and so you try to flaunt your beauty as much as possible at those times."

Fleur blinked. "'Ow did you come to zat conclusion?" she asked, to which Harry merely gave a smirk.

"Come now, Fleur, if a conjurer reveals his methods, his tricks become less extraordinary."

So, that Hogsmeade weekend, at Madam Puddifoot's Tea Shop, Harry was telling Fleur the tale of how he uncovered the mystery of the Chamber of Secrets. Needless to say, Fleur was gaping.

"Well, I was wrong about you all along," she said once Harry was done. "I zought you were just a smart man, but you are actually a reckless, foolishly brave and strong smart man."

"I wouldn't call myself strong, just accurate," Harry said modestly. He didn't know why he behaved like this around Fleur. Usually, he would have no problem proclaiming that he was, in fact, strong.

"Non, non, you are strong. You battled a Basilisk!"

"A blind Basilisk."

"Which is also a great feat," Fleur said. "Now, please, tell me 'ow you know so much about me."

Harry stared at Fleur for a few moments, then nodded.

"I deduced that you come from an upper class family because you wear specially made tailored robes in acromantula silk, and that you don't want to use your family's money from the lack of jewelry that you so desire. I know that you love your family, however, and that they love you, by the single ring you wear on your finger, which you received on your seventeenth birthday, a common gift for women when they come of age.

"I know that you have some feelings of insecurity, for whenever you gain a look of doubt, you cover it up and toss your hair, bringing everyone's attention to your beauty."

"C'est magnifique!"

"Elementary."

And so, Harry won the Triwizard Tournament, and another of Lord Voldemort's plans to regain his powers was thwarted by my dearest friend. Looking over my notes between '91 and '97, I still have a hard time understanding just how Harry made the deductions he did. To him, everything was so simple, so easy to see, whereas to a normal man, it would be like searching for a needle in a haystack.

That the imposter Moody was in actuality Bartemius Crouch Junior, I suspect to this day that Harry already knew, but never told me. Then again, he might not have. His poker face is something to be desired, as he can keep his cool in almost any situation. Even faced with a dragon, he managed to remain calm, whereas I am ashamed to admit that I would have turned and run the other way.

As you know, the Minister of Magic was called in, and Crouch was interrogated with Veritasserum. It turned out that Harry was supposed to be taken to a place where the Dark Lord Voldemort was to be resurrected. For thwarting this plan, Minister Fudge gave both Harry and myself an Order of Merlin, First Class. Mine looks pretty good over the fireplace.

Naturally, Harry won the Triwizard Cup, and I'm sure that the reason Fleur decided to stay in England after her graduation was because of him, despite the fact that she said she took the job at Gringotts to improve her English.

With the NEWTs done, and us graduated, I started drifting apart from Harry, I'm sorry to say. It took Sirius a long time to find a good apartment, so I'm glad Harry had at least someone to talk to, being that I was training full time to be a Healer and Hermione off to see the world for some reason. We still met from time to time, and we talked and talked, but it was not at all like old times. At least, not yet. When I finish my Healer training, however, I am going to move into 221B Diagon Alley, and I think things will once more get interesting...

A/N: Hello, readers! As you can see, The Chronicles of Harry Holmes is finished, but I have released the first chapter of the sequel, Harry Holmes and the Web of Conspiracy! Check it out if you want!


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